


Waiting at the cottage door (where two hearts become one)

by dutchmoxie



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Banter, Endgame Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Exes, Fillory (The Magicians), Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Holidays, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Magic, Minor Fen/Margo Hanson, Minor Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn, POV Quentin Coldwater, Slow Dancing, Weddings, hello my almost lover, past biphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21716692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dutchmoxie/pseuds/dutchmoxie
Summary: Bestselling YA-novelist Quentin Coldwater doesn’t spend time with his almost… something Eliot Waugh without mutual friend Margo forcing them. But she’s getting married over the holidays, and so Q has to go, even though his girlfriend and editor keeps reminding him that he has a manuscript deadline on January 1st. At least the wedding is in Fillory…
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 18
Kudos: 62
Collections: Magicians Hallmark Holiday Extravaganza





	Waiting at the cottage door (where two hearts become one)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Melissa for being ridiculously talented and a great partner!   
> Thanks to Mary for letting me rant at you forever and ever - you're still the best beta. Love you.

_ Jason let the heavy, ornate key fall from his hands, startled as he was by his friend’s strong hand that suddenly appeared on his bum shoulder.  _

_ That was not supposed to happen. He was supposed to be alone. He was supposed to do this alone. Because he had to be the hero - this was his quest, and his alone. No matter how completely unqualified he was for all of it. No matter how badly he was doomed to fail - there might even be a prophecy or two about all of the things he would ruin - this was his mission. It had to be a solo mission.  _

_ But his hands had trembled too much as he tried to open up the big grandfather clock, and Hale had noticed. Because Hale noticed everything.  _

_ Except for the way the butterflies in Jason’s stomach multiplied whenever Hale smiled. That sort of thing was beyond even Hale’s omniscience.  _

_ Excerpt from Untitled Impractical Applications of Magic sequel (book #2 of the Unauthorized Magic series) by Quentin M. Coldwater _

Could he call it “The Losses of Magic”? Or perhaps, “The Tale of the Seven Keys”? “Heroes and Morons”, maybe? None of those seemed to perfectly capture the feeling he was trying to evoke with this story. Titles really were the worst - but since he couldn’t actually write…

“Quentin.” 

It was probably the pressure - the first book had done so well. Better than anyone, especially him, had expected. 

No one had ever expected much of him, least of all himself. His specialty, his discipline at school, was only minor after all. Minor mendings. He could fix broken glasses and squeaky doors and he never had trouble with his stupid bicycle, but that was about it. 

He’d never been able to be useful. Not like Eliot, who could move things with the power of his mind. And not like Margo, who was a fierce magician in her own right. That and she was High Queen of a nation they’d presumed fictional until their second year at Brakebills prep. 

“Quentin.” 

The first time they arrived in Fillory was… something he’d never been able to describe, not even through his characters. And usually his characters were much better at speaking, and communicating, and even living than their author. 

Great, now the depression was talking again. 

He hid behind his hair, even though that was a stupid way of trying to hide from himself - as Margo had told him many times. She’d tried to make him cut it once or twice - or two dozen times - but Julia had always managed to step in at the right time. 

She always managed to do that, a quality that hadn’t quite made the transition to her fictional counterpart. Stella and Jason’s relationship was much more fraught with tension, as they’d gotten separated with Jason’s entrance into the world of magic. 

Maybe Stella was what he needed to get book two back on track? 

“Quentin,” the repeated sound of his name slowly started to drag him from his writer’s block induced haze. “Come back to me. We need to talk.” 

That wasn’t ominous at all. 

The thought registered before the recognition of the voice did. 

Alice. This was Alice. His girlfriend Alice. His editor, Alice. She probably had more comments about the draft of his first chapter that he needed to work into the rest of the story. She was good at that, picking up on small things that he could make into a coherent whole. 

“Sorry, so sorry,” he stammered as he looked up, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear. “I… Uhm… What do you think of Heroes and Morons? As a title? Maybe? For book two?” 

The look on Alice’s face as she contemplated the title, mouthing the words as if to get a feel for them, was carefully blank. She learned all too well not to show her initial thoughts and feelings on his writing to him. Quentin M. Coldwater was an insecure, fragile writer, more so when he was just starting out after Julia sent off his manuscript without him knowing. 

“I don’t think it fits your theme,” she finally spoke. “As a chapter title, I’m sure it’ll work. As a book title, less so. You should consider having magic in the title once again, or naming the book after the quest. You are still going with the seven keys, right?” 

Was it plagiarism to take concepts that you almost lived through in a world that was already in someone else’s book? Well, Plover didn’t deserve any of the credit, and his books didn’t mention the keys and what they fixed when put together, so maybe not. The was maybe thirty percent experiences he had in Fillory, ten percent Plover (if that), twenty percent tales he’d heard at Brakebills, and forty percent imagination and research to tie it all together. So that anything he ended up with wasn’t actually possible - he wasn’t giving anyone a how-to manual on how to kill a God or bring magic to a world - but still seemed likely. 

But Alice didn’t know that. She didn’t know him then, and had no trace of magic that he knew of. 

“Yeah,” he nodded effusively, to cover his growing awkwardness. “Seven keys. Still doing that. Because seven’s a good number for fantasy books. Three didn’t seem like enough, and it’s always three, isn’t it? Trilogies and all. Maybe it should be more than three books.” 

Rambling was good. Rambling about books and genres and themes and numbers, that was even better. That way, he wasn’t going to accidentally say something stupid to Alice that would reveal the existence of actual magic. That and at least half the characters in his book being based on people he met at Brakebills - even Todd had made it in there somehow. Under a pseudonym, of course, but every book needed a comic relief character. 

And Jason had never been the funniest or most lighthearted of guys. 

“You can think about that after you finish this one,” Alice chided, almost gently. “You have that wedding over the holidays and we need the manuscript by the first.” 

The first of January. The start of the new year. 

Wait, wedding? Oh fuck, Margo’s wedding. To Fen. That he’d been invited to. That he’d totally RSVP’d to as well - just him for most of the wedding preparations, no girlfriend to join him. Alice was busy. She had to work, even over the holidays. She barely had managed to get the time off to attend the actual ceremony. 

He didn’t mind. Because Alice and Margo? They had not gotten along the one time they met. And if that wasn’t bad enough…. Eliot. 

Alice and Eliot could never meet. And that wasn’t just his issues with those two worlds colliding and him knowing that Eliot was going to purposefully crack a million sly jokes that Alice wasn’t going to get because she wasn’t magic. She wasn’t at Brakebills with them, so she didn’t share the experiences that Eliot loved to mention to impress whatever hapless man he was trying to seduce at the moment. 

No, Quentin was not bitter. Not at all. And he certainly didn’t still have feelings for his… almost lover? Was that the right term? That was the song with the red-haired girl that he didn’t get misty-eyed over every single time. 

It sucked that Eliot was still so possessive over him (but mostly Margo) even though they hadn’t actually spent time together since… Well, he wasn’t sure exactly how long it had been, but he remembered the way Eliot mixed him drinks and smiled at him before picking a random boy from the crowd over him. Not that Quentin had the right to be upset about that. 

They weren’t like that. Not anymore. And they wouldn’t be again. 

Quentin was an adult now, with a bestselling novel and a smart girlfriend and a therapy regimen and a healthy balance between drugged to the gills with his meds and a total fucking mess. He was doing well. 

And he was going to see Eliot in two days. 

Watch out, carefully maintained equilibrium! 

* * *

_ What could one say about Summer? Without making her sound like the pretty girl villain in a high school movie - or sounding like a stereotypical middle-aged male writer who just wanted to talk about how gorgeous she was and compare her figure to random inappropriate objects.  _

_ What words would be enough to encompass all the glory that was Summer?  _

_ Summer was… fierce, ready to attack anyone who dared to harm her friends in any way - or anyone who dared to question her abilities. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and also the most terrifying person that he’d ever met.  _

_ Jason didn’t love her at first sight. He spent months having a healthy fear of her and her abilities and her temper before he first saw her smile at him in the fondest way. Her eyes softened a little and she was even more stunning than she was when she was angry. And fuck, she was impressively beautiful when angry. But when she smiled at him and called him friend? He got flustered and smiled back. And then he was lost forever.  _

_ What could one say about Summer? So much. So many things. But not one of those things got beneath her hard, glossy armor.  _

_ Excerpt from Impractical Applications of Magic (book #1 of the Unauthorized Magic series) by Quentin M. Coldwater _

Margo Hanson was not the first person Quentin met at Brakebills prep - that dubious honor went to Eliot and Eliot alone. But after Quentin had stammered at him for several minutes, they got interrupted by a beautiful woman with a smartass comment that he could never reproduce, even though he remembered many things about that day. 

She wasn’t statuesque - she barely came up to Eliot’s shoulder (but then again, Eliot was almost supernaturally tall in comparison to most normal people, even at fifteen) - but she was impeccably dressed and made Quentin feel like such a child in comparison. 

In comparison to Eliot and Margo, but mostly Margo, Quentin was a toddler who hadn’t figured out how to dress himself and how to not make people hate and bully him. He’d had no friends in elementary and middle school, except Julia, and now that they were going to different high schools he was sure that she’d forget about him all too soon. 

Because he was forgettable, only remembered for being the weird kid with the scars he didn’t want to let anyone see. Because they wouldn’t understand. And they’d make fun of him, even more than they already did. And they did it a lot.

So Quentin didn’t exactly come out of that first meeting thinking that Margo Hanson was going to become one of his best friends in the world. And who could blame him? 

Though within days, Margo, being a sophomore, had taken his pathetic freshman ass under her wings and made him feel at home when he should have wanted to run away ages ago. She’d made sure he got to all of his classes on time and didn’t miss any of the parties he’d never have been invited to without her. 

She got him drunk for the first time that first week, and she’d laughed when he dragged his hungover ass into what passed for a magical PE class. She taught him how to mix drinks and she was his first kiss (one night, before a party that was bound to have kissing games, and he confessed how embarrassed he’d be to have his first kiss with a stranger). She pushed him through the portal when he was terrified that Fillory would kill them all. 

Margo Hanson was his actual hero. 

“If it isn’t my little brother,” she teased him mercilessly even now, yanking him close to her for a long hug. “You look like shit, Q. Hasn’t that girlfriend of yours dragged you away from your laptop even once? We have to have words. You’re practically translucent.” 

That year of age difference? It could never be forgotten. She was forever treating him like she was the great font of wisdom and he was just a silly kid - he’d learned to not get too annoyed about it ages ago. Because if he was honest with himself, he knew that no one was Margo Hanson’s equal. 

Well, maybe - definitely - Fen. 

“Queen Margo,” he knew to show his respects properly. 

“If you bow to me I will punch you in the dick,” the ever respectful queen responded. “You’re still a king too, idiot. Even if you don’t visit enough. You’re just as bad as Eliot these days.” 

Shit, what was he supposed to say to that? That was certainly not a flattering comparison, and he really had no excuse for how little he saw her. There were portals and bunnies and all kinds of ways to keep in touch with Margo and perhaps get to know her fiancee a bit better. He’d barely interacted with Fen since he got the invitation to the wedding, and he should have. 

But he didn’t. Because he was an idiot who listened to his own self-conscious voices too much. 

“I’m sorry, Margo,” he started stammering, trying to hide his embarrassment at least a little. 

“Pussy up, Coldwater,” Margo yanked him in closer, as was her wont. “Don’t just apologize, do something about it. I actually want to hang out with you. Preferably without your little girlfriend, but I can be a little less picky for you.” 

The emphasis was on little, because this was Margo and compromising her very strict standards even a little… well, she’d only do that for him and for Eliot. And for Fen, these days. 

“I’m flattered,” he said, knowing how much that meant, coming from Margo. 

“You should be,” Margo responded before shaking her head at his messy hair. 

He had never imagined that Margo would be the first of them to marry. He honestly didn’t think any of them would ever get married - not really. Not for love. For Fillory, perhaps, but not for love. 

Margo proved them all wrong, as usual. She’d gotten good at that - not that she had ever been less than flawless as she outshined everyone. He really did wonder why she insisted on continuing to be his friend sometimes, when his brain was telling him all of the reasons that Margo was vastly superior to anyone (but especially one Quentin Makepeace Coldwater) - because he knew that he was anything but flawless. 

“You’re a goddess,” he told her, and meant it with all of his heart. 

But he was going to ignore the depression monster for a little while, because that never led anywhere good. Margo would kick his ass (again) if he ever told her he thought he was less than great. 

“I know,” she Han Solo-ed him, with a grin that told him she knew exactly what she was doing. 

About a month into her fierce mentorship of him, she’d found him watching the movies on a bad day. After making fun of him for five straight minutes, she made him start episode four from the beginning and didn’t leave until the credits rolled on Return of the Jedi. She made fun of the terrible dialogue the whole time, but she fell in love with Princess Leia and Han Solo regardless. 

Because that was just Margo for you. 

“So, where’s the love of your life?” He made it a point to look around for Fen. 

“Surrounded by the usual sycophants,” Margo rolled her eyes. 

She didn’t even have to point at the crowd in the back of the hall - Margo didn’t point. It was obvious that Fen was being mobbed, probably because Margo was glaring to keep people at a distance so that she could have a moment in private with Quentin. It was hard being the High Queen’s little brother - he was only a Fillory King in name these days. Fen and Margo did all the actual heavy lifting. 

“If you want to go rescue her,” Quentin smiled helplessly. “I have a lot of work to do - the deadline for book 2 is in a about a week and a half and I don’t have nearly enou-” 

He knew it was coming. 

“No,” Margo put a hand over his mouth. “This is a work-free zone.” 

How long would it take for Margo to realize that Quentin had so much work to do that he couldn’t afford for this event to be a work-free zone? Probably less than a minute, because she knew him too well after over a decade of friendship. 

Also, he was a terrible liar and he was sure that Margo recognized that sheepish look on his face by now. This was not the first time Margo had other plans for him - that were undoubtedly better for his mental state eventually, but not for his wallet or career. 

“You brought that stupid magical laptop, didn’t you?” Margo got it right away. 

“Now that Fillory is modern enough thanks to you and your blushing bride to be,” he started the explanation, knowing that Margo was not going to let him finish the explanation. 

“Speaking of the loves of our lives,” Margo was up to something, of course. “Eliot! Finally!” 

And he was right. Double right. All the right. 

Because Eliot was here. 

“Surprise!” 

Sarcasm practically dripped from the word, because of course it did. Eliot knew that his presence was expected here, and that Margo would have single-handedly dragged him from whatever hole he managed to find himself in if he hadn’t shown up. No matter if he’d rather not see Quentin again (which was so fucking obvious to him), he had to be there. 

For Margo. 

Margo was trying to hide a smile. “Finally, asshole.” 

“I missed you too, Bambi,” Eliot’s voice softened, like it always did for her. 

Once upon a time, that voice used to be soft like that for him. Once upon a time, Eliot used to call him Q all the time, with that damn smirk on his face that made Quentin want to yank him close and kiss that smug look right off his face. 

Somehow, that effect hadn’t gone away yet, even though it was supposed to after Eliot basically ditched him after he confessed his feelings. Like an asshole. 

“Where’s your ink and quill?” Eliot was outright mocking him now, instead of greeting him like a normal person. “You don’t look like a harried writer, Quentin M. Coldwater!” 

Sure, that was supposed to pass for a greeting with Eliot Waugh. It was a nice little joke that wasn’t supposed to sting, but did. Because of course Quentin didn’t look like a writer, he was just a loser who’d gotten lucky, and Eliot knew it. 

“Look closer,” Margo just laughed. “Need glasses, El?”

She didn’t need to point out the circles under his eyes, because clearly those were obvious to everyone. The holiday season was never a great time for him - depression was the worst when he didn’t have a father to spend the holidays with anymore - and with the deadline and the writer’s block… He’d fallen asleep behind his laptop more than once, and he was lucky to get more than four hours of sleep each night. 

“My eyesight, like everything about me, is perfect,” Eliot was his haughty self. 

“You may be a lot of things,” Margo got started with that grin on her face that said she was having the best time, “but perfect isn’t one of them, asshat.” 

Insulting was basically friendship foreplay for them, and it was something that had never quite come naturally to Quentin. If he cared about someone, he preferred showing them and actually treating them like someone he cared about. 

Margo’s love language for her friends, however, was strictly insults and grudging concessions on big statements. He’d learned to appreciate that from her - not so much from Eliot. 

“You may address me only as King Eliot,” Eliot adjusted a lock of his curly hair. “You know I’m a big fan of official titles.” 

Eliot had always loved status, had defended his school status as top dog viciously, even from rather pathetic perceived threats like Todd. 

Oh God, he hadn’t thought about Todd in ages. 

“Your highness,” Quentin bowed for a perfect formal greeting. 

He’d practiced this a ton as a kid - just in case he ever managed to find his way to Fillory and had to greet the royal family there. He’d taped himself and watched it and then practiced again until he did it perfectly. It had actually come in handy when he did find himself in Fillory, but it wasn’t a skill he’d used much recently. Or at all, now that he was a King in his own right. 

And he wasn’t hoping that Eliot would be impressed by his perfect form. 

“At least someone knows to offer me the proper respect,” Eliot gloated, before returning the bow. “My thanks, King Quentin.” 

Somehow it looked more elegant when Eliot did it, which kind of pissed him off. Years of practice, and Eliot still did better. He always made everything look effortless, and Quentin always had to try so hard at everything. And even then, he was always just mediocre. 

Eliot somehow always made him feel insecure and desperate to please, yet desperately in love with him at the same time. It was a hard line to walk, but Eliot managed. 

“Fucking antiquated mating rituals,” Margo muttered under her breath. 

Sure, she said it under her breath, but she was clearly hoping that one or both of them would hear and take offense. Because if Margo loved anything, it was drama. And if they didn’t start any drama, she was definitely going to do it for them. 

“Quentin! Eliot!” 

Fen flew over to meet them, and completely and inappropriately went in for a hug. Of course, since it was Fen and her enthusiasm for the world was unlimited, she tried to hug the both of them at the same time, leaving Eliot right at his side. Their bodies awkwardly knocked into each other a couple of times before Eliot looped an arm over his shoulders, starting a threeway hug. 

“It’s been so long!” Fen’s sentences ended with exclamation points a lot. “You two just don’t visit, and you know Margo needs her Brakebills buddies around if she’s going to stay sane here.” 

Quentin smiled, because how could he not when faced with that much brightness. Fen just brought lightness to everyone around her, but she had a core of steel underneath that made her a perfect match for Margo. Fen was a great Queen, and the subjects loved her. 

And she was a much better match with Margo than she ever would have been with Eliot. Mostly because Eliot’s romantic and/or sexual interest in women was… barely existent. They did seem to love each other now, after resenting each other as teenagers. 

“My best man,” Fen turned to Eliot. “You wanted another look at my dress, because you weren’t sure it lived up to your exacting standards. Your words.” 

That did sound like Eliot - and Fen claiming Eliot as her best man made Margo’s problem in picking her man of honor (strictly Margo’s term) a lot less complicated. If Eliot was already spoken for, her picking Quentin was the logical option. 

He’d be offended that he hadn’t been the first choice if he wasn’t very aware that Margo would have picked Eliot in a heartbeat if it wouldn’t have hurt Quentin’s feelings. He never doubted that he was number two on Margo’s BFF list, and he was just flattered to be in the top ten. So being her man of honor? Way too much responsibility that he was happily taking on - for Margo. 

“Alright, you can have your former fiance,” Margo dragged Quentin away from the gathering. “I need Coldwater for some secret wedding things. My man of honor.” 

Secret wedding things? He honestly wasn’t too upset at her dragging him away before Eliot could make him even more confused about his feelings, but the words “secret wedding things” did make him kind of nervous. 

Especially because Margo proceeded to drag him to the cottage. 

* * *

_ It wasn’t much. The small cottage was still standing but for the grace of…. something, the thatched roof half caved in and the big wooden door completely off its rusted hinges. It needed a lot of work if it was ever going to be even remotely habitable.  _

_ They had a mission to complete - there was no time for Home Makeover, the magical cottage edition. They’d be out of here in a matter of hours, with the key, and there’d be no need for a roof over their heads. No matter how nostalgic it made Jason for the magical stories of his childhood, where all of his favorite heroes spent nights in cottages just like this one before they went on to save the world.  _

_ It made him glad he wasn’t alone this time. He was pathetically pleased that Hale had forced himself into what was supposed to be a solo quest - and he was fooling himself if he told himself that it wasn’t about Hale, specifically.  _

_ Ever since they first met, Hale had been… different. Special. Something else. And now they were on a mission, just the two of them. In a cottage with only one bedroom - only one bed. If one could call it a bed. It was basically a pile of straw and blankets that served as a bed.  _

_ “Have you ever heard the legends about this place?” _

_ Hale’s expressive face was stuck on a smirk - that ‘I know something you don’t know’ look that had been driving Jason out of his mind for months now.  _

_ “Legends?” _

_ “Oh dear,” Hale made it sound like Jason was a fool not to know. “There are so many things I need to teach you, and only so little time to do so.” _

_ He’d always been good at making himself sound like the magnanimous hero who was going to take this kid under his wing. There was barely eighteen months between them, but Hale always really had to make them count. Because he was a drama queen.  _

_ Who liked a good entendre about just what he’d teach innocent little Jason. And Jason was tired of it never meaning anything, and about Hale always just… dismissing him.  _

_ So Jason just repeated his question. “Legends?” _

_ Excerpt from Untitled Impractical Applications of Magic sequel (book #2 of the Unauthorized Magic series) by Quentin M. Coldwater _

“Remember the legends about this place?” Margo threw the door open and pushed him inside. 

The thick layer of dust he’d been expecting was not there. Sure, it still wasn’t anything like the palace, but it looked a whole lot better than the last time he’d seen it - that time he was there to do research, to see if he could work it into the first book. 

That did not end up working, but he managed to get it into the second book. At least, into the scenes that he had for book #2 so far. And there weren’t many of those. 

Writer’s block was the worst. 

“I remember,” he knew that he had to be blushing. 

There were some details he remembered that were not supposed to be discussed in polite company - which was why Margo told him all of it, because if there was anything Margo was not (not generally anyway), it was polite. She simply did not give a fuck about it - she’d much rather be honest. 

“Cute blush, little brother,” she teased. “Well, turns out all of the bullshit about spending a night in the cottage is true. I was as surprised as you are, but Fen and I spent a night together here on the solstice last year, and the weirdo love magic was real. Nothing creepy and non-consent-y, because ew, but it was definitely amplifying what was already there.” 

Margo had thrown herself onto one of the new chaises, looking ridiculously elegant as usual. She told the story perfectly, slightly reluctant but still happy underneath, and if he hadn’t been aware of her superior acting skills he actually would have believed her. 

He pushed some hair behind his ears, embarrassed and awkward. “You’re making fun of me.” 

“For once, not so much,” Margo was gleeful about it. “I like to make you a little uncomfortable, but I’m not fucking with you about me and Fen. It’s surprisingly sacred to me.” 

The more Margo joked about something, the more ‘for real’ it was, basically. She might have joked about the magic and what it did for her and Fen, but that made it more meaningful. 

“So the cottage is for real?” That was the thing that really got him. 

Instead of lying down, Margo was now sitting on the chaise, still looking every inch the queen. “Very for real. Anyone who spends a night here with their true love, is getting a serious magic boost towards happily ever after. You’ll know it when you feel it. It’s like porn that way.” 

This was the Margo finding his porn folder problem all over again. She knew too much already, and now every single time she mentioned it there was that look and… He wasn’t fifteen anymore, but that clearly didn’t matter. 

“Of course it is,” he just smiled. “The good kind of porn, that doesn’t exploit its stars.” 

Which she’d told him all about. 

Starting in freshman year, Margo had taught him a lot. It wasn’t all sex (and eventually, questioning his sexuality), there was also a surprising amount of privilege he had to unlearn as a cis, (perceived) straight, white male. Margo was… not white, even though people couldn’t always place it, and therefore made shitty comments about how “exotic” she looked. And well, once Quentin figured out he really, really wasn’t straight… Margo was the first person he came out to. 

And she’d always supported him, even when Eliot… basically told him that he didn’t want to be his gay experiment. Not in those words, because this was Eliot after all - but Quentin understood. He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t  _ that _ naive, no matter what Margo said sometimes. 

Speaking of Margo...

She was very pleased with him. “Atta boy. I’ve taught you well.” 

She always did like her projects, and Quentin was a shining example of that - or maybe that was too cynical, because he was completely sure that Margo cared about him, regardless of him following her advice. Or orders - sometimes it was more like an order. But even if he refused, she was still going to be his best friend slash mentor figure. 

And that was probably why she had dragged him to the cottage, for more advice slash orders to further improve his pathetic life. If the cottage had worked for Margo, there was no reason why it couldn’t work for Quentin as well. 

It made sense, except… 

“Why are we here now?” Quentin had to ask. “I mean, I like Alice, but I’m not sure she’s the love of my life. And she’s never been to Fillory because I’m not sure how I’d explain that to her.” 

Was he an asshole because he was pretty sure Alice wasn’t the love of his life but he still stayed with her? Was that a bad thing or was that just him being content with life as is? When would it be a bad thing? Would it ever be? 

Because he had a pretty strong hunch about who was actually the love of his life, and he was also pretty damn sure that nothing was ever going to happen (again) there. 

“We could make that work,” Margo shrugged off that particular concern. “We have magic. If you really wanted her here, I could do a thing. For more than just the wedding. But that’s not the point, because for once, this has nothing to do with you. I know, I’m shocked as well.” 

“Shut up, Margo.” 

Sometimes Margo actually let him get away with a comment like that, because she was having too much fun making fun of him. It appeared that this was one of those times. 

“It’s a surprise for Fen,” Margo was looking right at him, unashamed of her feelings. “I just want to spend the holidays here with her. The solstice is not the right time with the whole wedding thing, but I want us to ring in the new year together. In here, surrounded by the best possible circumstances. Because that’s what she deserves.” 

It was one of the things he’d always had in common with Margo: admitting when they were in love, even though it could lead to awkwardness or rejection. Margo had been proud of him for putting himself out there, every single time, even when… Even when it would have been better if he’d never said anything at all to ruin their little threesome. 

No, not like - well, not completely like that. 

“She does. If you need me to help, I’ll help.” Fen deserved all of the good things. 

“Great,” Margo was far too pleased at his acceptance, and that was never a good thing, “because I’ve already asked Eliot to help out. You two can do it together.” 

Of course she did. Of course this was not just kindness - this was Margo after all. Even her love and kindness came with strings attached if at all possible. Not harmful strings, just awkward ones, slightly painful ones that pulled at old memories he thought he’d buried. Because Margo thought they needed it. 

And Margo always assumed she couldn’t be wrong. 

“Margo.” Surely she could see the defeat in him. 

“You have to deal with him at some point,” Margo made the solid argument, using it to end all possible future arguments. “I’d rather that be before my wedding. It’s a very special day, little brother. Don’t cock it up.” 

Ah, a typical Margo-ism. He’d kind of missed those. No one else he associated with had such a way with words. Not that he associated with all that many people. 

“Was that your exit line?” Quentin had to ask, because it sounded like one. 

“For now,” Margo threw out over her shoulder, before sashaying off somewhere. “I mean it, little brother. You can’t ruin this for me, or I will ruin you.” 

And that was the real exit line. Because this was Margo, after all. And he loved her more than most, and not nearly as much as she deserved. But she had Fen for that, now. 

So Quentin looked at the room he was in, really looked at it in terms of thinking of possibilities instead of just making a note of the exits and the distance between objects. This place meant something more, or it had to mean something more once he was done with it. 

He was a terrible decorator, because he rarely had the spoons to do more than stack his messes and occasionally clean them up. He didn’t have stuff just for the ambiance, because that was just more stuff that he needed to keep track of on bad days. He had the shit he needed and that was enough - and that was not a philosophy that Margo could live by. For her, for Fen, he was going to have to do better. 

One problem: he had no idea what better was supposed to look like. 

“You look like a lost puppy.” 

While Margo loved a good exit line, Eliot was all about that opening line. About sneaking up on people and surprising them with some clever wordplay before they had a chance to prepare just what they were going to say. 

And Quentin needed all the preparation he could get for his first one on one conversation with Eliot (without anyone watching them). Of course that meant that Eliot was going to interrupt him in an awkward position, leaving him lost for words. 

“Eliot.” 

What else was he supposed to say? Eliot was good at getting him speechless. Always had been, too. 

“Quentin,” Eliot was slightly mocking, as usual. “Little lost boy having a little trouble on his quest? Don’t worry, I’ll handle all of it.” 

Fucking asshole. Quentin loved him an unreasonable amount, but he was a fucking asshole at least half the time and Quentin was tired of pushing through the asshole to find the old friend hiding underneath. Sure, that guy was an asshole too, but it came from a place of love. It wasn’t meant to sting. 

This was. And Quentin was left just trying to figure out what he’d done wrong, when Eliot was the one who’d… Made the choice. 

“I can help,” he raised himself up to his full height of 5’8”. 

Not that it mattered much when he was up against Eliot, who was a couple inches over six feet tall, and therefore looked down on most everyone. But he did it anyway, because he liked himself better when he could stand up to Eliot’s slightly tyrannical ways. 

“Alright then, Mr. Coldwater,” Eliot led him outside, so of course he followed. “How about you help me get a proper Christmas tree? Fen adores our Earth holiday traditions.” 

Fen would say it like that, too. She didn’t get to spend a lot of time in their world, because being Fillory royalty just wouldn’t allow it. But when she did, she enjoyed all of the tourist-y stuff that most people had long since stopped caring about. She stared with wide-eyed wonder at things everyone took for granted. The Statue of Liberty, Times Square, the fucking Lion King - Fen loved every single part about all of it. 

She’d probably never had a traditional Christmas like the ones they all knew. 

“And you’re cutting it down yourself?” He didn’t mean to sound that incredulous. 

But it was out there before he knew it and Eliot now seemed determined to prove himself. And that had never been a bad look on Eliot - just a dangerous one for Quentin and his determination to not get sucked in again. 

Improbable, but not impossible. He hoped. 

“Don’t worry,” Eliot was already halfway into the forest. “I won’t rip my clothes. I know how to handle an axe.” 

Another facet of Eliot that he didn’t usually reveal to people: the Indiana origin story. But Quentin had known for years, and so Eliot didn’t have to hide this time. Not like he would have with just about anyone else. At least Eliot still remembered that. 

But then he got his hands on that axe - because of course Eliot had an actual axe - and he emphasized just how phallic the handle was by torturing Quentin repeatedly. Clearly, he knew that it would get to him. 

“Yes, Eliot, I know you’re good with your hands,” Quentin found himself flirting, like an idiot. 

Eliot just looked at him, and Quentin felt sixteen again. Eliot swung the axe, and Quentin felt like his pervy teenage self again, just wanting to stare at Eliot all the damn time and trying to make sense of the reasons why. Eliot moved, and Quentin stared. 

Nothing had changed, really. 

* * *

_ The sun was glaringly bright, enough so that he couldn’t just hold up a hand to hide himself from its bright rays. Jason could have sworn it had been raining rather harshly just minutes ago when he chased the strangest invitation he’d ever laid eyes on down the cold streets of New York.  _

_ “You’re late.”  _

_ The… boy? - no, this was no mere boy, this was an adult - was leaning back luxuriously on the marble with a rather bored look on his handsome face. With a cigarette in one large hand and the other used to support himself on the sun-heated wall, he was the picture of a dandy.  _

_ He was perfectly dressed - he could make Oscar Wilde jealous if he so chose. His vest was perfectly fitted, and the only less than perfect thing about him was the curly hair that couldn’t seem to stay out of his eyes. He was everything Jason wasn’t and desperately wished he could be - that air of cool, of sophistication surrounding him. The way he looked at Jason with such a clear air of superiority. _

_ Oh, maybe he didn’t actually want to be like that. Arrogance wasn’t a good look on him, not like it was on the mysterious, nameless dandy. And he disliked arrogance - wasn’t capable of it with how much he hated himself in the dark days.  _

_ How could he be proud?  _

_ “Follow me.”  _

_ It was easy to follow the order, even though he had no idea where they were going and what they were doing. But he’d always felt comfortable obeying authority.  _

_ Excerpt from Impractical Applications of Magic (book #1 of the Unauthorized Magic series) by Quentin M. Coldwater _

The word count went up so damn slowly, and the cursor didn’t move nearly as much as he wanted it to. Because his writer’s block was never going to end. 

And re-reading the first book certainly didn’t help. Because the more he read it, the more awkward comparisons he found to his real life that he certainly hadn’t consciously put into the story. 

No wonder people were writing fanfiction about Hale and Jason online - thanks Margo, for none too subtly pointing that out to him - there was so much subtext there that it was basically text. Though they were seriously wrong about Jason’s potential feelings for Hale being returned - Quentin did not write that much wishful thinking into his stories. 

Not that he wanted Eliot to… He had Alice, and she was… Even if he didn’t have Alice, he would still not… Fuck. 

Maybe he would. Maybe he always would, for the rest of his fucking life, because Eliot was… Eliot. The first boy he’d kissed, the first person he’d fallen so damn hard for that there was no way to brace himself before he hit the ground. And he hit the ground hard, shattering on impact. 

That was too much - that was more of a Jason thing than Quentin. It was a fanciful metaphor that he was absolutely going to use in the second book somewhere - once he figured out if he was actually going to go there. 

Shamelessly using real-life inspired events? Well what else was he going to do, with the stupid writer’s block and that ever-looming deadline…

And besides, it was more like wishful thinking, because his life… Fuck, no, fuck those thoughts - he wasn’t going to give them headspace. He was a fucking bestselling author (even though his imposter syndrome had lots to say about that), who lived in a nice apartment, had a loving girlfriend, and his mental health had been pretty okay (by his standards, anyway). 

“Hard at work or hardly working?” 

Of course Eliot showed up just when he’d managed to focus on something else. Sometimes, he secretly thought that Eliot had an alarm of sorts that went off when he was from people’s thoughts too long. Or just from Quentin’s…

And he’d been doing so well, with not seeing Eliot and not stalking him on social media too much. Sure, their friendship had pretty much given up the ghost - but it wasn’t like Eliot was knocking on his door. They’d both given up. 

“Hi,” he managed to say. 

“Come on, Q.” It was hard not to think of Eliot as disappointed. “You managed to talk to me just fine yesterday. Did I get scarier overnight?” 

Quentin had never been scared of Eliot, really. Scared of the rejection, maybe. But mostly he’d been sad and disappointed and kind of fucking angry too. And because Eliot always seemed to bail when they were in the same place, they’d never even talked about it. So the anger was still churning deep in his gut, and it made him act like an asshole. 

Because Eliot had done worse - no matter how petty that thought was. 

“It’s the bags under your eyes,” Quentin pretended to stare closely at said bags. “They really add another layer of terrifying. A certain je ne sais quoi - that’s what you’d say.” 

His French wasn’t nearly as terrible as it was in high school, back when Eliot used to throw French words around as a part of his hedonist esthetic and Quentin was left gaping and awkwardly trying to mimic the pronunciation. He’d taken some Latin at Brakebills - because apparently JK Rowling had not been wrong about it being the language of wizards - but French? Not so much. 

After much mocking, and a few years’ distance, he’d tried again. He never got that good at it, but the look on Eliot’s face right now was still glorious. Because he managed to stun Eliot Waugh, and that was a rare treat that didn’t come around nearly often enough. 

Eliot recovered quickly though, as he always did. “Did you finally learn French that wasn’t meant to proposition someone? I’m reluctantly impressed.” 

So what if he’d been an idiot teenager who’d only known the Patti LaBelle song because his mom had played so many times when he was a kid? Not everyone managed to have that gift for languages that Eliot did - and continued to use on his many trips around the world. 

“Both, both is good,” Quentin knew this was the time for the best of bi jokes, even though Eliot wouldn’t get why he thought it was so funny. 

It garnered him a dramatic sigh from Eliot, who was now trying to read over Quentin’s shoulder, taking a peek at his laptop screen. Which was barely going to do him any good, with the blinking cursor firmly on a mostly empty page. 

“A solid motto,” Eliot nodded, for once completely missing the subtext. “Now if you just move aside, I can take a peek at the undoubtedly fascinating contents of your next book and tease Margo about it. She’s dying to read it - couldn’t stop blabbing about it.” 

All the embarrassing bits and pieces were hidden - the mostly empty page just had a couple of random lines he considered using for a new character that he was planning to introduce in the second book as a love interest for Jason. Olivia was obviously based on Alice - but it didn’t make sense to him to have all of these characters based on his friends and not have one based on his actual girlfriend. Plus, the story could always use more awesome female characters. 

Eliot was going to figure it out in about five seconds once he read the book - if he read the book, because he hadn’t actually heard any comments from Eliot about the contents of the book. Eliot had never been much of a reader, and if he’d bothered with Quentin’s book, he’d have so many comments about plagiarism and the stupid fucking subtext between Hale and Jason. 

But Eliot never said anything of the sort - so Quentin was free to assume he hadn’t actually bothered. And he was free to pretend that didn’t sting. 

“Is that it?” Once again, disappointment from Eliot. 

Fuck him, and fuck his untouchable face - and fuck Quentin for listening to angsty Ani DiFranco songs while trying to write Jason secretly pining for Hale while at the same time trying to figure out Jason’s dynamic with Olivia. He didn’t want to go the love triangle route - but then again, Hale’s feelings for Jason would probably end up just like Eliot’s feelings for Quentin: non-romantic with a hint of dismissal. 

“What were you expecting?” Quentin was genuinely curious. 

“More purple prose maybe,” Eliot didn’t take any prisoners. “Straight white male descriptions of the new female character. Fanboying about Fillory thinly disguised as fiction?” 

Straight? Really, Eliot? Still? After all this time?

(Always.) Ugh. No. Quentin, no. 

Quentin had to roll his eyes at his so-called friend. “My oeuvre in a nutshell.”

If Eliot was being a dick, Quentin kind of felt compelled to sink down to his level. Also, he was fucking pissed about the straight white male comment - it hit a decade-old sore spot that was probably never going to go away. Not until Eliot stopped being an asshole. 

So yeah, never. 

“That’s a big word for just one book,” Eliot had to be even more of a shit about it now. “Maybe one and a half. Though half is generous, judging by the word count.”

Clearly Eliot had looked at the file much more closely than Quentin had been expecting, not that there was any reason for him to even want to do that. Other than to be an asshole about all of the things his writing was severely lacking, and all of the things that he couldn’t seem to give his publisher. Like actual words, at this point. 

Or, words that weren’t tangled up in his confusion, in the way he wasn’t sure about how he was supposed to feel about Eliot’s reappearance in his life. Brief as it was supposed to be. 

“Are you going to do better?” Quentin challenged. “Will I see Eliot Waugh on the bestseller list next?” 

“I’d have the decency to use a pseudonym,” Eliot was all haughty joy at being drawn into a relatively harmless battle of wits. 

Quentin wasn’t sure if that was a dig at him, or Eliot’s inner Lord Byron shining through once again - all about the drama and the esthetic. And the scandalous affairs, of course. Eliot was all about the scandalous affairs - which Quentin still had all the scoop on because of Margo. 

Not that there had been all that much to hear about lately. 

Was Eliot Waugh actually - gasp - settling down? 

“Single entendre or double?” Quentin somehow still knew Eliot well. 

“Triple, if at all possible.” 

Eliot grinned at him in that way he had, a lock of messy hair falling into his face. Quentin could feel his hand wanting to reach out to fix it, but he refused to give that ancient impulse any power here. 

They weren’t like that anymore. If they ever had been. 

* * *

_ Had he ever been alone with Hale before? Surely he had, in stolen moments at the Academy, when Summer wasn’t around to claim time with both of her best friends. Brief moments where Hale just dropped a metaphorical bomb on him with a basic comment, only to walk away before Jason could respond. But it was always brief, and always interrupted too quickly.  _

_ But now? Here?  _

_ All they had was each other - sure, there were other people around here somewhere, and occasionally they did get visitors. But those people didn’t know them, didn’t know where they’d come from and what they’d been through to find themselves here.  _

_ They didn’t know about the mission, the one that seemed like it would never end. How could they possibly find the beauty of all life with almost infinite combinations? Oh, Jason had done the math - because Hale sure as hell wasn’t going to do it for him - and infinite was a ridiculous exaggeration. But trying every configuration would take them years.  _

_ If they wanted to get magic back, they didn’t have years. People’s lives were at stake.  _

_ “Stop moping, Jay,” Hale knew how to use that stupid nickname against him. “We’ve done all we can do today. Sit with me, have a drink, and maybe tell me more about those books you love so much. We could use some proper entertainment.”  _

_ Hale wasn’t the first one to use the nickname, but he was the first one to make it feel meaningful, and Jason was helpless against it. So he let go of the tile he’d been fiddling with and dropped down onto the ground, next to Hale. He always seemed to be right next to Hale lately - not that he minded.  _

_ Why couldn’t they get out of this before he did something stupid, like… Like act on those stupid feelings he’d apparently been harboring for way too long.  _

_ But if it was going to be years of this, why not act on it? Why not let it happen?  _

_ “Hey,” he turned to Hale.  _

_ And instead of mocking him, or saying something that broke the spell, Hale just grinned at him, messy curls moving slightly in the evening breeze.  _

_ Jason reached out, and - _

_ Excerpt from Untitled Impractical Applications of Magic sequel (book #2 of the Unauthorized Magic series) by Quentin M. Coldwater _

That was where he left off before Eliot came into his room because apparently there was a cottage-related emergency that had to be dealt with right at that very second. Just when he’d finally given in to that stupid impulse to write… Well… 

How would he describe it? Wishful thinking of the highest order? A storyline that his publisher was not going to be amused by? A scene that would have Alice thinking twice on the future of their relationship? Fan service? Something he shouldn’t even contemplate? Something Margo was going to give him so many pitying looks for?

There were so many reasons why he shouldn’t have gone there, but now that he had… He felt lighter, more settled. Like it was at least out of his head now - like it wasn’t just his thoughts. Like he wasn’t just carrying it on his shoulders anymore - it was out in the universe now. 

“Are you even listening to me?” 

Was Eliot actually pouting at him? 

At this point, Quentin thought that Eliot just wanted someone around while he came up with all of these grand ideas on how to make the cottage perfect for Fen. He just wanted someone to do some of the work and occasionally nod while Eliot had all the ideas - he didn’t actually want any feedback. From anyone, but especially not from him. 

Or did he? 

“Of course,” he said, knowing he was a terrible liar. 

Eliot was going to see right through him, but at least he bothered with the social niceties. His anxiety wouldn’t let him not acknowledge those. 

“Terrible liar,” Eliot rolled his eyes. “Simply awful. Now you’ll simply have to listen to my magnificent plans all over again. Clearly, you’d be lost without me.” 

Great, just what he wanted. For Eliot to remind him how much better he was than Quentin, and how terribly Quentin was doing without him. He didn’t want this to be a constant battle of wits, or a battle of something anyway. Most people wouldn’t call him witty. 

“Magnificent.”

Okay, so he was a little too sarcastic there. Probably. Because sometimes he really did have good ideas too. And he was there for a reason: Margo wanted him involved. That meant that she accepted that there would be at least a hint of that Coldwater charm in all of the mess of pure Waugh. Fen liked the Coldwater corniness, Quentin was sure of it. 

And besides, he was more than a little tired of Eliot treating him like an inconvenience, when he was the one who… left. 

“Don’t be a dick, Coldwater,” Eliot resorted to petty last name tactics. 

Because he was a child who wasn’t getting what he wanted from Quentin. Not that Quentin had any kind of idea what it was that Eliot wanted. Ever. 

But Quentin couldn’t let the pettiness go. “Right back at ya, Waugh.”

Eliot didn’t even seem surprised at his stubbornness, and somehow that annoyed him too because for once he wanted to surprise Eliot, to be more than he’d expected. To be special to him again, so that maybe he could look past his own idiocy and maybe…

But that was never going to happen because Eliot didn’t want that to happen. Eliot didn’t feel that way about him anymore, if he ever had. 

If he’d felt like Quentin did back then, he wouldn’t have let go so easily. Eliot Waugh went after what he wanted. Quentin just wasn’t one of those things. 

“Oh, Q,” that nickname stung now, too. 

That used to mean something, and now it didn’t. And he missed when it did, when Eliot gave a damn about him. He missed their friendship - he could live without the other things he wanted from Eliot. He just… He wanted his Eliot back. Not this new one who was trying so hard to keep them apart, being an asshole just for kicks. His Eliot. 

“We were friends once,” Quentin looked at Eliot, even though he was scared to. “Best friends even. Can’t we at least be that again? Friends? I missed you.” 

Well, that did surprise Eliot, apparently. He’d managed it after all. 

“Of course you missed me,” Eliot wasn’t going to make this easy on the two of them. “And of course I missed you and Margo. But I have adventures to go on, people to save, fashion emergencies to avert, concoctions to invent. I’ve got magic to do, Q.” 

Sometimes Eliot was just such a fucking nerd, and it was delightful. Quentin knew he was snickering softly, getting a reference from way back when. He knew Eliot would hear and be proud of himself - and it felt like a benediction. 

A scary one. 

“Mr. Leading Player,” Quentin fiddled with the edge of his shirt, unsure of what to do next. 

“How about we start with the lights?” Eliot had his telekinetic powers at the ready. 

Quentin wasn’t ready. Because Eliot using his powers so surely, with just a couple of quick movements from those strong, dexterous hands? That did things to him, it always had and it always would. Hand kink, Margo had called it - competency kink, he’d refuted. Watching Eliot be so good at things… It was extremely attractive. 

And maybe he had a bit of a hand fixation - Eliot had lovely hands, lovely talented fingers that Quentin still blushed to think of years later. 

“Lead the way,” was all he said, hair in his face to hide his stupid blush. 

Eliot was too focused on the lights, on moving the strings of actual fairy lights (don’t ask, he didn’t have the words to explain that bit) to drape artfully from the high beams and the ceiling of the cabin. Eliot was working, and Quentin was just staring. 

It really was like old times. 

“Fen will be so happy,” Quentin found himself saying.

“Good,” Eliot said almost viciously, as if ready to fight at a moment’s notice. 

And he probably would fight someone for Fen. They all would. 

His thoughts were getting a bit distracting, now that he was just standing there while Eliot did everything. It didn’t seem fair, and it didn’t seem particularly productive either. But what was there to do for someone so painfully average as him? 

“Maybe I should do the ornaments?” Quentin was so damn unsure of his role in this whole endeavor. “On the tree? They’re nice. Did you pick them out? Or Margo?” 

It wasn’t Fen - there would have been a lot more adorable stuff that Eliot and Margo would have deemed too tacky. If it had been Fen, there would have been Mickey Mouse ornaments, and actual Disney princesses and lots of bright colors. 

This version? This was too stylish, too perfect. It didn’t scream Fen. 

“I did,” Eliot said proudly. “You know how excellent I am when it comes to esthetic.” 

Oh, Quentin knew, because Eliot’s best example was himself, and Quentin was having a little bit of a lot of trouble dealing with how good he looked with the sleeves rolled up as he did his magic. Perfectly rumpled for maximum devastating effect. 

“Fen could care less about esthetic,” Quentin had to argue. “She just wants it to be bright and fun and colorful. Disney chic. I think that’s what Margo called it. And knives. There’d be knives. Fen loves her weapons.” 

Eliot dismissed him, elegantly, of course. And well, Quentin would have accepted it from Margo, maybe, but not from the guy who’d been working so much that he’d almost forgotten that his friends existed. Shit, he probably wouldn’t have accepted it from old Eliot either, because it didn’t seem fair to Fen - this was her gift, and this was her wedding too, and it didn’t just have to be this perfect vision of beauty that Margo and Eliot always seemed to aspire to. 

“Dagger ornaments,” Quentin continued. “There should be daggers.” 

Margo had told him many a disturbingly detailed tale about just how good Fen was with those, and what that did to Margo. He didn’t blame her, but there were some things a best friend couldn’t know and still look Fen in the eye. Or, well, he tried, anyway. 

“Ridiculous,” Eliot exclaimed, putting the finishing touches on the strings of lights. 

The lights flickered briefly before flaring even more brightly, and Quentin worried at how much of a drain this would put on Fillory’s limited and unstable electrical resources. The extravagance of the wedding was somehow not a reason for Fillory’s citizens to riot - not after Margo’s landslide win in the election after her promises about establishing sentient animals legislation - but it was certainly a reason for Quentin to worry about the spells that held it all together.

The Gods weren’t dead anymore, but he still worried. They couldn’t just do as they pleased - it simply couldn’t be that easy. 

“Dagger earrings though,” Eliot casually snuck an arm around Quentin to grab at a plainly elegant ornament shaped like a gemstone. “I’m sure Fen would love those. And Margo could have matching ones. Modeled after sorrow and sorrow, of course.” 

Margo did love those axes. His best friend was a violently fierce woman, and since Quentin was usually on her side, it didn’t scare him all that much. Anymore. 

“Of course,” Quentin repeated dumbly. 

Because Eliot was all around him, in his personal space, like they hadn’t been apart for years and he could start up where they’d left off. To be fair, that was almost exactly what Quentin had asked of him. But almost was tricky. 

Why wouldn’t the fucking feelings stop? The stupid butterflies? The way he wanted to breathe in Eliot’s familiar scent and lean into that strong hold? 

It had to stop. He had Alice. Eliot didn’t actually want him. And he didn’t truly want Eliot, right? It was just the way first loves were, how they never quite let go of you. It had to be that. 

“Come back, Q,” Eliot’s hand on his arm, gently bringing him back from his thoughts. 

Like he used to do, in the old days. He was one of the few who could do it successfully, this easily, with just a short phrase and a simple touch. He knew just what Quentin needed, and somehow he still did. Maybe that was it. Maybe that was why he couldn’t let go. 

This was extremely unfair to Alice and Quentin was a terrible person. 

“I’m here,” he said, trying to give himself time to get himself under control. 

“About half of you is,” Eliot teased, harmlessly. “And I’ll get the other half here as well, if I have to drag it kicking and screaming. I’m a bigger drama queen than you’ve ever been, so I can outlast your temper tantrums easily.” 

Well, he was quick to admit to his own dramatic tendencies now. That was good. It almost felt familiar, even though he didn’t really know this Eliot. Or did he? 

“Because yours were always worse,” Quentin wasn’t just going to let him have it. 

Eliot faked offense at that, but the light in his eyes made it obvious that he was actually enjoying the banter. That maybe Quentin did know him still. 

“I’ll give you the daggers,” Eliot was still so close, and still seeing him. 

The fucking mortifying thing that was being known - Eliot was still doing it to him. Fuck, why was Eliot always the one who saw through all of it? 

“For Fen,” he grinned at him, helplessly. 

Eliot’s beautiful smile was there as well. “If she stabs anyone with them, I’m blaming you. I didn’t do well in exile. You’d just turn it into one of your magical quests.” 

Well, who could resist a magical quest? He’d helped save Fillory, their school, their friends, even Eliot once upon a time or so. Just because he was a part of the quest, because he was the persistent idiot who refused to give up just because the odds were ridiculous and the plan seemed impossible or dangerous. He trusted his friends, trusted they’d get it done. 

And they always did. Mostly. 

“Don’t knock the quests,” Quentin warned, but there was no anger behind it. 

“I wouldn’t dare,” Eliot vowed. “I loved our quests. Your quests.” 

Did he say - oh. He did. So maybe he did remember. Maybe he remembered it with a bit of fondness, that time it had just been the two of them. That time he was desperately pushing into his books now - maybe with a better ending this time. 

“Our quests.” 

He couldn’t not say it, couldn’t not acknowledge that bond that never went away. That thing that never actually happened, but did. It did. 

The fairy lights flared more brightly when Eliot smiled softly in his direction, the only sign he showed that meant he’d heard what Quentin said. That he’d understood what it meant. That Eliot felt it too, maybe. 

Or was that more wishful thinking? 

The lights flickered and then went out completely. 

Guess Fillory’s fragile electricity network didn’t hold up to all of the grand plans after all. 

* * *

_ Jason couldn’t believe that Olivia was actually talking to him. She could have chosen anyone, could have talked to Hale or Summer. She could have bonded with Jade and Arjun, intimidating as they were at first glance. Not as intimidating as Summer, though. She could take it up to a whole new level. Mere mortals need not apply.  _

_ But Olivia… She was mortal, and beautifully so. She was smarter than him - but knowing how mediocre he was at everything, he knew most people here were. Olivia though, she was the smartest. She worked hard for everything she had and took pride in her accomplishments.  _

_ “Jason?”  _

_ And she wanted to talk to Just Average Jason. _

_ He didn’t dare ask her why - because women didn’t like that in men, Hale had said. Not that Hale was all that interested in what women liked and wanted. Not if those women weren’t Summer, or maybe… The lady Brittany. They seemed to be quite close these days.  _

_ “Jason?” _

_ Jason wasn’t jealous. He understood why people would want to spend time with Lady Brittany - she was lovely and kind and treated everyone like a friend.  _

_ “Jason?” _

_ “Oh, Olivia,” he was so bad at this. “I’m sorry.”  _

_ She didn’t dismiss him, though, like he’d been expecting. She looked up at him, shyly, through her glasses, and smiled softly, warmly. She didn’t leave, didn’t look at him with pity in her eyes. She stayed, and she smiled.  _

_ “It’s okay,” she said.  _

_ Oh, that’s what that felt like. To have his interest in someone returned, for once.  _

_ Excerpt from Untitled Impractical Applications of Magic sequel (book #2 of the Unauthorized Magic series) by Quentin M. Coldwater _

He was going to have so much explaining to do if Alice and Eliot ever got together again - which they never would, if he had anything at all to say about that. 

Not that he had any kind of power over his friends - Margo and Eliot had always been forces of nature who did whatever they damn well pleased. And Alice was anything but easily cowed, so the inevitable meeting would be painful and awkward and full of barbs going over someone’s head. Quentin really did not want that someone to be him. 

But he worried it would be, as much as he worried that it’d be Alice, simply by virtue of her not being a Brakebills alum. Simply by virtue of her not knowing about the magic that flowed through their veins, even though Quentin hardly ever got to use his. 

He wanted to, though. He missed it. Missed the feeling of finally mastering the complicated series of hand movements that constituted a proper spell. Missed the way it felt when he’d managed to fix something that others had already dismissed and deemed broken. It didn’t even matter how small the item was - he’d fixed it. He’d done that. He’d made something better. 

“Q?” Eliot was right next to him, still. 

“I’m okay, I think,” he stammered, trying to wrangle his thoughts. 

Eliot laughed, softly. “Very reassuring. I think.” 

This gentle mocking? He liked that. It didn’t feel like malice anymore, and the stupid voices in his head had long since stopped shouting at him when Eliot used this soft tone. Because doubting this Eliot? Not even Quentin Coldwater ever could. 

And he doubted everything. 

“Are you?” Quentin dared to ask. “Okay, I mean?” 

Of course he asked - he had to know, even though the odds of there actually being something wrong with Eliot were slim to none. They’d just been standing there when the power went out, not at risk of ruining everything or getting hurt. 

But still. 

“Just hurt my pride,” Eliot sighed heavily. 

“It’s lucky you have so much to go around,” Quentin quipped, feeling decidedly… puckish. 

He could feel Eliot’s laughter, close as they were. He felt safe, even in complete darkness in a semi-strange environment. He hadn’t been here in so long. 

At first, he thought the vibration he’d felt against his thigh was Eliot too, but he quickly realized that they weren’t actually that close, and that the weight pressing into him was just his phone. That apparently still worked - so the blackout hadn’t fried the battery? Fillory really was a place of magic. 

When he saw his girlfriend’s face light up the screen, he slowly started to lean away from Eliot. Because that? That was too much and not okay and he had a girlfriend! He had a girlfriend and his head was all wrapped up in Eliot anyway. 

“Alice!” He picked up, trying to sound upbeat. 

“Quentin,” Alice said his name in that typical way of hers that usually made him feel better. 

Now it just made him feel guilty. He probably didn’t have a special way to say her name, not like the way he managed to whisper “El” or “Eliot” when the man in question managed to overwhelm him, managed to drown him in those stupid fucking feelings. 

It wasn’t fair to Alice. But he could never have Eliot. And… It still wasn’t fair. 

“I’ll give you a minute,” Eliot sounded… less soft now. 

But Quentin couldn’t see his face in the almost pitch black room, only the slightest light from his phone screen pressed against his ear. 

“I was just checking in,” Alice spoke up decidedly. “I know you’re with that high school friend of yours, but the first is getting really close and since the wedding isn’t actually until a few days from now… I was hoping you’d have a couple of chapters for me to look at.” 

Well, fuck. That just made him feel worse. For some reason it was worse when Alice called as his editor, his agent, as professional Alice. Not as his girlfriend Alice. 

Because now he felt like he’d failed her in yet another way. 

“I’ve been working on a couple things,” Quentin tried so hard to sound casual, and not like he was stretching the truth. “Jason and Hale on a mission for one of the keys. There might be a bit of time travel, time magic in there. The time key? I think. Maybe. That would be interesting, I think. I haven’t named that key yet, I think, but the mission is coming along.” 

Liar, liar, set his laptop on fire. 

Sure, he had some ideas about that particular quest, but he wasn’t even sure that he was actually going to act on them, because he was a terrible liar and everyone was going to see right through him. And Alice was going to figure it out. She was smarter than him, than almost anyone, so of course she would. 

And that would be the end of that. 

“Good,” Alice clearly wasn’t completely sure about this. “Send me the scenes in the morning and I’ll see if that direction works with the rest of the story. Are you celebrating tonight?” 

His eyes found Eliot at that, because that’s what they did, even in the dark, with Eliot somehow having managed to find a candle that he hasn’t managed to light yet. Because the candle was broken in the middle, and would therefore be a mess without Quentin’s brand of magic. 

So he lifted his shoulder a bit, awkwardly pressing the phone to his ear and hoping Alice didn’t notice that his attention was barely on her at the moment. She did not like him multitasking when she clearly required his full attention. Because technically both his job and his relationship were on the line here and he still was more interested in helping Eliot fix that damn candle so they could make an already awkward atmosphere awkwardly romantic as well. 

Because there wasn’t enough belligerent sexual tension here. 

“Not really,” he started to stammer as his hands went through the familiar movements with perfect form. “Margo sent me out on some best man duties today, but I think most of that’s done at the moment.” 

Now, he wasn’t lying, but implying that he had time to write when there was no way he could work his laptop in his current state - and he wasn’t the writing by candlelight kind of guy anyway because fuck that ancient suffering for his art esthetic - that was kind of like lying to Alice even though he never made any promises. It was extremely shitty of him.

“Oh that’s good,” Alice had no idea, so apparently he wasn’t a completely terrible liar. “That means you’ll have some time to work on that idea of yours before you send it to me.” 

And he was fucked. He was totally fucked. 

Huh, that sounded familiar somehow. 

“Barring any interruptions,” Quentin tried not to look at Eliot when he said that. 

But it was hard. Eliot was beautiful by candlelight - every Victorian bit of his esthetic coming to the forefront to basically smack Quentin in the face. Which - that was just rude. Even though it was a metaphorical smacking. 

“You did tell your friend about the deadline, right?” Alice was definitely starting to figure out that something hinky was going on. “I know it’s her wedding, and she needs her best man… But you did tell her how important this is. Right, Quentin?” 

Sometimes it really sucked having a girlfriend who was so involved in his career. Sometimes he just wanted someone who was completely on his side and wasn’t thinking about deadlines and release dates - but just of his happiness and general wellbeing. 

It probably wasn’t fair to Alice to think that. 

Why was he such a fucking mess of a boyfriend ever since he’d gotten to Fillory? 

“Yes,” he nodded while holding on to his phone. “Margo knows. She may not like it, but she knows. She isn’t going to send me on any unnecessary errands.” 

Because Margo genuinely thought that this cottage plan was necessary - but Alice didn’t know that, and Quentin felt like an asshole but he wasn’t going to drop out of the plan. Not when he could do this for Margo and Fen and also spend time with Eliot again. 

The latter shouldn’t have mattered so much, but did. 

“Terrible liar,” Eliot muttered at him from his spot on the sofa. 

Quentin motioned back at him to shut the fuck up, because Alice hadn’t reached that conclusion yet and he didn’t want her to get there until after the wedding. Or never - never would be even better, really. 

Of course Eliot completely ignored his frantic motions, because he’d always been an asshole like that, even on his kindest days. 

“Are your pants on fire yet?” Eliot got up, the candle floating alongside him. 

Quentin briefly muted his end of the phone call to get a dig in at Eliot. “If you get too close with that candle they will be.”

Alice was still talking about the deadline and how important it was and it hurt. It hurt to ignore her like this, but it also hurt that once again they mostly talked about his work and not so much about anything else. She hadn’t asked if he was enjoying herself, and he was pretty sure that she didn’t remember Margo’s name until Quentin had mentioned it himself. Because Alice was in editor mode, and editor Alice was focused on the job - she once told him that she had to keep those parts separate. 

He kind of understood, except he never got a call from girlfriend Alice, no random phone calls just because she wanted to talk to him. 

“Can’t handle the heat?” Eliot was too close again. 

And maybe now that he had Eliot in front of him, all of the things that didn’t make him happy were put under a giant magnifying glass. Because here was Margo, getting married, and Eliot, looking handsome and on top of the world. And then there was Quentin, freaking out about the future of his relationship and letting imposter syndrome get the best of him. 

It didn’t really seem to compare. 

“El,” he said, because it was all he could say. 

Those words had sounded like flirting, like the flirting Eliot used to do back in high school, and just about every time they’d seen each other since. Because sometimes Eliot just liked to rub it in his face, apparently. 

No, that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t Eliot’s fault that he didn’t feel the same way, and Eliot was just a flirt to everyone. It wouldn’t be fair to make himself an exception in any way. No matter how much he wanted to be special to Eliot Waugh. 

“Come on, Q,” Eliot reached for the phone. “You’re not going to keep lying to her like an asshole. Just finish your little book nerd moment and then help me get all the blankets. It’s going to get really cold here really soon, and this room is the only one with a fireplace. I’m not planning on freezing to death just because you’re getting your nerd on with your girlfriend.” 

Quentin tried to stay out of reach, unmuting his end of the call to tell Alice that he understood everything that she’d been saying, and that he was hard at work on that new plot related to the time key quest. He knew he was trembling, and it wasn’t just from the incoming cold. 

“I have to go,” he told her then. “Lots to do before morning.”

Instead of saying something sweet and motivating, Alice said a curt goodnight and hung up on him before they could exchange sweet nothings. 

Clearly he’d fucked something up there. They were never the kind of couple that was all about the pet names, but this felt too… different. Like Alice didn’t even miss him. 

“Very professional,” Eliot hit the mark exactly. “I didn’t know that was the kind of romance that you were interested in, Q.” 

Eliot was not allowed to comment on any romantic decision in Quentin’s life, not after he declined to be personally involved in it when they were teenagers. He didn’t have the right to judge Alice and deem her lacking, not when he didn’t want to step into the role of Quentin’s partner himself. 

And honestly, he doubted that it would have lasted if Eliot had said something. Because Eliot was his own greatest saboteur and Quentin was even more insecure back then. Sure, he’d been the brave one, he thought. He’d been the one to call out what was there - only for Eliot to dismiss Quentin’s feelings as some kind of experiment. 

Like he didn’t know what he was feeling. But he did. 

“How would you know?” Quentin lashed out. “You haven’t been around long enough to tell.” 

Too much emotion there - Eliot was going to know that Quentin still cared way too much and they were going to have that same stupid imbalance in feeling again. Because clearly Eliot didn’t feel the same way - again. And now he knew about it too - again. 

Eliot was smug about it too. “Did you miss me?” 

He was the brave one, he always had to be the brave one here. Because for all that Eliot was comfortable in throne rooms and surrounded by the most powerful people, he was a total chickenshit when it came to displaying actual vulnerability - even in front of Margo, because they had this thing where being soft with each other was weak somehow. It was something that they tried not to acknowledge. 

No wonder Margo came to him for the more embarrassing stuff, the feelings stuff, the anger she still had about her father being less than proud of the astonishing woman she’d grown into. Quentin was the person Margo had come to when she found out her parents weren’t going to attend the wedding. Sure, she’d probably discussed it with Fen first, but Quentin was a supportive friend that she could talk to. 

Once upon a time he’d been that for Eliot too. 

“I missed you,” he nodded sharply. 

It was easy to pretend that he couldn’t see Eliot in the mostly dark room - was easy to pretend that was the reason why he couldn’t say that and face his friend. 

“Q,” Eliot sounded soft, unsure even. 

He didn’t dare ask if Eliot had missed him too, worried that he wouldn’t get the desired answer and unsure what the desired answer even was. Did he want Eliot to say that he’d missed him in the years he’d been gone? Did he want the wishful thinking that would ensue, or would he rather hear the negative? That Eliot didn’t spare a thought to him. 

“I told myself I’d be brave next time,” Eliot continued, a warm hand on his shoulder pulling him in close. “Brave like you. If I’m ever brave, it’s because I learned it from you.” 

For a second or so, Quentin wanted to refute the bravery label, exchanging it for something like stupid or impulsive or not caring enough for his own safety to avoid taking risks. But then he paused, and knew that Eliot was very aware of what bravery meant - not the absence of fear, but acting despite the fear that threatened to consume Quentin so often. He was filled with more fear than most, and so he’d learned to stop being paralyzed for it. 

Eliot didn’t fear many things, but when he did… 

“El.” 

“Q.” 

And then there was silence, as Quentin waited patiently for Eliot to maybe do better this time. He said he’d be brave, well, Quentin was going to give him all the opportunity he needed. 

Though that didn’t mean anything if he didn’t take it. 

“The blankets,” Eliot finally said. “You’re cold. We need blankets. You need blankets, because for some reason you’ve never learned to dress for a Fillorian winter.” 

Well then. Another opportunity wasted. 

“We can’t all be as fashionable as you,” he talked to hide his tumultuous thoughts. 

Or was it really wasted? Because he was spending time with Eliot again, and they weren’t just sniping at each other the whole time. The friendship was still there, buried underneath a pile of painful history that neither of them wanted to touch. 

They’d have to, eventually. 

But for now, they just had to get through the night. In a one bedroom cottage, with no electricity, and nothing to distract them from each other. 

Well, fuck. 

* * *

_ It was all his fault.  _

_ Wasn’t it always?  _

_ He’d tried to take on the Gods and lost, and they’d punished the entire realm for it, when they should have just punished him. Just him.  _

_ Because there was blood on his hands, and not just metaphorically anymore. To save his friends, to save himself… But none of that mattered when a God was dead and magic had been taken from Fillory.  _

_ People were going to die. People might have already died because of it. Fillory needed magic to thrive, and without electricity to power anything… How would they get anything done? And how many people would lose their lives before they fixed it? _

_ “Jason.”  _

_ Someone was talking to him, but it was hard to hear over the pounding of his heart and his increasingly fast breathing. Shit, was he working himself up into another panic attack? _

_ “We have to bring back magic,” he gasped out, already lightheaded.  _

_ “Jason.” That same voice.  _

_ It was familiar, that voice, something to focus on maybe? But there weren’t enough words and there wasn’t enough air in the room. His vision was blurred and his throat was dry and there was blood on his hands.  _

_ He’d killed a God. Somehow he’d managed to kill a God.  _

_ “We have to bring it back,” he tried to steady his breathing.  _

_ A hand on his shoulder, moving to his face. Someone was making him look at them, but Jason didn’t want to look in his friends’ eyes and see disappointment. So he tried to refuse, but his pathetic body (seriously, how had he ever managed to kill a God with his puny arms?) was easily swayed by a strong grip.  _

_ His breath stopped, and then slowly started to settle as he looked into warm brown eyes.  _

_ “We will,” Hale looked him straight in the eyes. “Together.”  _

_ TO BE CONTINUED in book #2 of the Unauthorized Magic series _

_ Excerpt from Impractical Applications of Magic (book #1 of the Unauthorized Magic series) by Quentin M. Coldwater _

Shit, he was running out of harmless things to say already, and they’d only been stuck together for less than an hour. If this was to last all night, there was no way that he wasn’t going to screw this up. 

Well, at least he had something that he could count on. 

“You’re shivering,” Eliot pointedly interrupted his musing on the last book he’d read. 

Quentin didn’t say anything in response, because… What was he supposed to say? He didn’t feel much of anything, but when he touched his arms to get a sense of his own temperature, he was shocked at how cold he was to the touch. One of these days, his shitty perception of his own body was going to get him killed. 

“I guess so,” he finally managed. 

“Idiot.” 

Yes, he probably was an idiot. Eliot was right about that. 

The shivering was more noticeable now that he’d finally figured out just how cold he was. His entire body was on edge, his teeth starting to chatter even though he tried to grind them together to stop it. He was not going to last the night like this. 

Were these really all the blankets they had? Maybe it was worth the risk after all, to go out into the dark and stormy night to find a warmer place to stay. 

“Stay there,” Eliot ordered, every inch the king. 

He listened, because what else was he supposed to do? He wrapped himself more tightly into his awkward blanket burrito and tried to think of warm things. 

The sun shining on his face on a hot summer day, hot food fresh from the oven, his dad’s homemade lasagna with mountains of cheese, that time Eliot convinced him to go skinnydipping and Quentin had thought his face would burn off from blushing so warmly. The first time Margo called him her friend, that one time his mother had actually been happy to help him fix a mistake, meeting Julia for the first time, the way Eliot had smiled at him when Quentin started calling him El. Getting gratitude from Penny even though his roommate had barely spoken a word - it still meant everything. 

And then he got hit in the face with a soft pillow. 

“We’re sleeping together tonight,” Eliot was dragging piles of bedding from the bedroom into the empty space they’d created in front of the fireplace. “Margo would kill me if I let you turn into an icicle. And the fans, Q. They’d never find out if that Jason guy ever got a girlfriend.” 

Because clearly that was the main issue in his book, and the thing that the people really wanted to know about. Not the quest to bring back magic - just the romantic relationships. 

But then again, Eliot hadn’t read the book, and he wouldn’t know about the overarching plot. He probably just knew about the ship wars going on online - people actually seemed to think Jason and Summer were going to happen, or Jason and Stella. Which… a world of no, as Buffy would have said. 

“He might,” Quentin wasn’t sure why he revealed that part. “Not sure if it’ll last though.” 

No one else knew about Olivia yet, and about what Quentin had planned for that relationship. He didn’t really like love triangles in his fiction - the stuff he wrote and the stuff he read - but he had a real opportunity for some twists and turns. And if he was going to be explicit about Jason’s feelings for Hale, and if he was writing the rejection as well… 

Why not have an openly bisexual protagonist? 

As a kid, he’d wished for people like him in books. He’d wished for people who struggled like he did, who won and lost the battle with anxiety and depression on a day by day basis. He’d wished for adventurers who kissed knights as well as damsels, and for lady knights and male damsels to be kissed by. 

So why not write people like him? That was how he’d started. That was how Jason had been created, and why he continued to exist, as he was.

That was why Quentin was considering a serious discussion of depression in the storyline related to one of the keys. He’d felt it was too personal at first, was desperately trying to find another kind of key to describe. He’d wanted to write a different mission for that one, but maybe he wouldn’t - maybe he’d let the readers see the worst of Jason. 

He just hoped they’d still love him. 

If the murder hadn’t turned them off, maybe this would. The mental illness and the sleeping with - wait. 

“Wait, sleeping together?” 

Somehow that thought just now got through to him, after a whole mental plotting session for his novel. Eliot wanted them to sleep together. 

“Body heat, Q,” Eliot was grinning, he had to be. “I’m warmer than you, and bigger than you, and this way we can share the blankets. It helps that we’re not sleeping on the floor.” 

Right, body heat. It was the smart decision. There was a lot of science behind it, and still Quentin was acting like the idiot teenage boy he’d once been, replaying Eliot’s voice in his mind as he explained that they were sleeping together. 

Him and Eliot. Eliot and him. Sleeping together. In the same bed. If it could be called a bed. 

“Smart,” he nodded, hoping he wasn’t blushing. 

“Come here,” Eliot ordered, pulling at the blankets Quentin had wrapped around himself. 

He tripped and stumbled on the way down onto the bedding. It wasn’t as soft as a regular mattress, but it was still more comfortable than he’d been expecting. And warmer, too. Eliot’s tall body was a streak of heat at his side, and Quentin slowly let go of his death grip on the blankets. They could share. 

“Better?” Quentin could see Eliot’s face now, all smug and beautiful. 

“Yes,” he let out a soft breath as Eliot pulled the blankets on top of both of them. 

Sure, he hadn’t really thawed yet - that was going to take a while longer - but feeling the warmth from the fireplace helped. Having the extra blankets helped. And having Eliot right there, so close to him, like he hadn’t been in years… Well, the blushing did make him feel warmer. 

His face was probably on fire right now. 

“You choose this as the time to not wear the damn sweaters?” Eliot continued to make fun of him. “I didn’t know you could wear a button up without a hipster shirt underneath.” 

Quentin would have taken a little bit of offense if Eliot hadn’t manhandled him unto his side and pulled him close to his body. Eliot was giving off so much heat, making him the perfect big spoon - and since he was so much taller, he covered Quentin’s body entirely. He hadn’t felt that cared for and saved in a very long time. 

“You don’t get to dress me,” he mumbled, knowing Eliot would still hear because of just how close they were. “Margo’s tried several times, and I refuse to go through that again. I like my clothes to be comfortable. Vests are not comfortable.” 

Any second now, Eliot was going to disagree with him, and Quentin just wouldn’t care because he was getting warm now. Eliot was warm and tall and all around him and he still smelled just as good as he did back in high school, maybe even better. Now that they were in Fillory again, he just smelled.. Like he did that one time when they… When they almost…

Yeah that was not a good thing to think about when they were cuddling together and any move he made was going to be completely obvious to Eliot. 

“Darling,” Eliot’s voice a drawl, all honey and sweetness. “Sometimes you just want to look pretty and accomplished. It’s about the look.” 

The nickname lit him up inside, remembering teenage Eliot letting it slip from his lips in their most private moments. Calling Margo by the traditional “Bambi” and trying out many different names for Quentin, even though he’d mostly settled on Q when they were in public. 

“It’s a good look,” he muttered under his breath. 

Eliot laughed softly, warm breath against the nape of Quentin’s neck. Oh, so he’d heard that bit, even though Quentin hadn’t really meant him to - or had he? 

“Thank you, darling,” Eliot was speaking softly now too. “I can’t fault that good taste.” 

Arrogant, smug, and still so soft - Quentin laughed softly, letting it shake his body a little against Eliot’s larger and warmer one. 

“You’ve always looked good,” Quentin let himself say. “From the very first time I saw you. Everyone else was just glad not to have to wear the uniform, but you? You were on a magical runway with Margo and the rest of us peons could only stare.” 

A warm handed carded through his hair, sending a shiver down his spine. He’d always enjoyed being taken care of like this, like he was treasured and cared for but not like he was being stifled and pressured and pushed. There was just the sensation of Eliot’s form at his back, his hand in Quentin’s slightly too long hair, and the sound of a storm raging outside - audible even over the calm rustling of the fireplace. 

“You were never one of the peons,” Eliot’s hand had not yet found a rhythm, but it didn’t seem to matter. “You were ours. You were Margo’s first, because she took you in first, and then you were ours.” 

Being vulnerable was easier in the dark, with Eliot unable to look him in the eyes. There was less judgment this way, and the terrifying experience of being known was… slightly less terrifying when Eliot was cracked wide open as well. 

“I was?” Quentin was pleasantly surprised, even though a part of him had always known. “Margo claimed me pretty openly, but you? I thought… For the longest time I thought you were only keeping me around because of her. Because for some stupid reason, she was letting me be her friend.” 

It had been a source of insecurity, especially in his freshman and sophomore year of high school, worried that Eliot was suddenly going to decide that Quentin was too much of a hassle to stick around. Worried that he was going to give Margo an ultimatum and he’d lose Margo as well as Eliot - not that he’d ever consciously been sure of having Eliot. 

Not at that time. For a while though, in junior year… He’d been sure. And he’d been wrong. About everything other than their friendship. Because by that point, there’d been no question that they cared for each other. At least that much was real. 

A soft kiss to the back of his bum shoulder. “You’re an idiot.” 

A throb, because it always ached in this kind of weather, and he probably should have gone back ages ago to get it properly fixed up with magic. 

“You never said anything,” Quentin tried to defend himself. 

“Q,” Eliot’s voice was deeper, the way it got when he was starting to fall asleep. “I didn’t think I had to say anything. I was so obvious about you. Everyone knew. Except for you, apparently.” 

Everyone knew? That Eliot was really his friend? That he actually valued Quentin? He’d thought that had been… Something Eliot hid from people - from everyone but Margo. 

“So you’re telling me now,” Quentin was pleased, feeling his own eyes drift closed. “You’re a good friend, Eliot Waugh.” 

He could have sworn he’d heard Eliot groan at that, but he was half asleep already, thoughts leaping around from unicorns to centaurs to frolicking in the Fillorian sun in the garden outside this very cottage. And Eliot. Always Eliot. 

* * *

_ King Jason didn’t have a pleasant ring to it. It sounded… odd, especially in a country like this one, when names were less common. But the crowns were always meant for the sons and daughters of Adam, for the children of Earth who would one day come again.  _

_ He just thought that, while Hale and Summer were squabbling over who’d get which crown, he’d gently depart from the proceedings and let them have it. There was only one High King and one High Queen, and he wasn’t either of those. Arjun deserved the place meant for the king, so Jade could be his queen. Was that not how it was supposed to turn out?  _

_ “Jace,” Summer spotted him pouting. “Jason!”  _

_ Because sometimes he thought that she had magical vision, that she had eyes in the back of her head that told her when her friends were trying to sneak away or in any way interfere with her plans.  _

_ Her plans were perfect, she’d explained many a time before, and therefore they were not to be trifled with, especially not by him. Because clearly he couldn’t be trusted with seeing his own value to the mission - not like Summer and Hale could.  _

_ “Summer,” he just waited for his orders like a good friend.  _

_ “You’re a cock if you think we’re not putting a crown on your head,” she beckoned him over with a slim hand - and a rather rude gesture.  _

_ “I happen to like cock,” Hale just had to take that opportunity. “But yes, don’t be an idiot, Jason. I’m not letting go of the High King crown - it goes with my coloring - but this one has always been meant for you.”  _

_ And he held out the crown to Jason, like it was no big deal. Like that was the kind of friends they were, like that was just the way they were now.  _

_ Jason’s eyes were not filling up with tears, not even a bit. “I get to be a king?”  _

_ “I’m certainly not picking Arjun,” Hale rolled his eyes at the mere idea of that. “Now, I’m sure you have some kind of local ritual memorized just for the occasion. I’m ready to be crowned.”  _

_ Summer was not particularly happy to let Hale go first, but she was going to let it slide, this time, if he crowned her after this. When Hale agreed, Jason got the satisfaction of telling him to kneel for a proper coronation.  _

_ Fuck, he wished Stella was here. She’d have loved this.  _

_ “Usually I’m the one telling cute boys to get on their knees,” Hale snarked, but followed orders nonetheless. “Now, I’m prepared to be your King. Your High King.”  _

_ It was difficult, trying to get this just right. Jason’s hands were trembling slightly, because they were only going to get one shot at this and he had to do it right. Not because the ritual was that strict, but because this was going to be one of those moments, the ones they’d remember when they were old and grey with wrinkled heads still holding these crowns.  _

_ “You’re a High King in your blood,” Jason believed that from the bottom of his heart. “And you’re going to be a really great one. I certainly think so. Hale the mercif- No. The Brave?”  _

_ That made Hale smile up at him. Merciful Hale was not, but brave? Maybe he was brave? Bold, strong, perfectly himself when Jason was still too afraid to breathe too loudly. King Hale the Brave - it had a certain ring to it.  _

_ “I’m not particularly brave or merciful,” Hale looked at him, eyes filled with warmth.  _

_ “I dub thee,” Jason tried to find the perfect word to encapsulate Hale, “Hale the Spectacular. Your High King. Our High King.”  _

_ If later, when Hale put him on his knees so that Summer could dub him King Jason the Brave, his eyes were suspiciously shiny… Well, no one had to know.  _

_ Excerpt from Impractical Applications of Magic (book #1 of the Unauthorized Magic series) by Quentin M. Coldwater _

He’d woken up alone when morning was already turning to afternoon. The spot behind him where Eliot had been sleeping was still warm. 

A part of him had hoped that maybe… That Eliot was just using the facilities or finding them food or in any way had a valid reason for leaving him like that after they’d fallen asleep tangled together like it meant something. It had meant something to him - too much, really. 

“Quentin?” Margo strutted into the cottage like a woman on a mission. “Care to tell me why you’re incredibly late for the dancing lessons? I’ve already tried my wiles on Eliot, but he’s being annoyingly tightlipped this morning. Which is just unlike him.” 

Fuck, he wanted to hide in these blankets for the rest of the day and just judge himself for the terrible decisionmaking he’d partaken in the night before. And he didn’t even want to think about his novel, and the chapter he hadn’t worked on and therefore couldn’t send to Alice until at least the end of the day - perhaps even the middle of the night. If he rushed and didn’t get too blocked again. 

“Margo,” he groaned from his blanket nest. “Just leave me here to die.” 

Quentin was completely aware of how dramatic he was being, and how Margo was never going to let him get away with it. But he wanted to ignore that for a little while longer and stay in the hazy glow of contentment that Eliot had managed to wrap around him last night. He’d felt so good, until he’d woken up alone. 

He was not ready to face reality yet. 

“No way, Coldwater,” Margo pulled the first layer of blankets off him. “I’m sad that you and Eliot didn’t get the dicking you both clearly need, but there are things that need doing and you’re not being a very good man of honor right now. You can get me the gossip later.” 

Dicking? Obviously Margo had her mind in the gutter once again - which, while not a surprise, was extremely inconvenient for him. He was giving himself the wrong impression of his relationship with Eliot, and he didn’t need Margo to add to it. 

Besides, just making it about sex? It kinda cheapened it. Last night meant a lot to him - and to Eliot too, he hoped. 

“I have a girlfriend,” he protested. 

“That’s a you problem,” Margo replied, too quickly. “You can think about how to explain Eliot to her while you haul ass to your room. Shower and change - I’ll see you in ten minutes. And if you’re not wearing a tie, I’ll string you up by it.” 

Dancing and a suit and tie? Margo was actually trying to get rid of him before the wedding? She knew that he was a mess with two left feet, so why add the discomfort of a fucking suit? And a tie, trying to strangle him and making him uncomfortable in the neck business? Clearly he’d fucked up, and she needed him to prove his continued allegiance by embarrassing himself on the altar of dignity and evening the score. 

Lucky for him, he didn’t have a whole lot of dignity left anyway. 

“Move, Coldwater!” 

So he rushed through the shower, tried to pull the suit on over his still damp body and didn’t even trip over his own feet once before getting to the most dreaded issue of all: the tie. 

No one had ever shown him how to properly tie a tie: even when he still had to wear a uniform, he’d managed to get Eliot to help him. And when he got older and slightly famous, he had Alice do it for him. Because Quentin was a fucking disaster still. 

“Fuck the tie,” he muttered to himself as he knotted it wrong for the thirteenth time. 

Margo was just going to have to string him up if she wanted him to be there in time for any of the dancing. If left to his own devices, he was barely going to be in time for the wedding itself - and that was still several days away. 

He left the tie dangling loosely from his neck as he rushed in the direction of the ballroom - he hoped, because the palace was still a confusing maze of corridors that rivaled Hogwarts with its magical traps and twists and turns. He scuffed his slightly too tight shoes on the uneven stones underneath his feet and tried to take deep breaths through his nose at the feeling of the suit’s jacket weighing him down and the belt digging into the softness of his belly. 

“Margo is going to kill you,” Eliot found him right outside the room. “You’re a disaster.” 

Still, Eliot was looking at him as fondly as Quentin imagined he’d done the night before - before he ran away like a total coward and left him for an angry Margo to find. What was up with that? 

Clearly Margo’s thoughts on the very real magic of the cottage did not work on the two of them - and of course. Why would they? They were friends, and that was all, and that was still important to him and that was just going to have to be enough. 

He had Alice, and he was going to be a better boyfriend to her when he got back. Eliot was going to be his friend again, and it would be like the old days but better. 

“Just let her kill me,” he threw himself at Eliot, trying to hide behind him like he used to back in high school. “I’m sure I deserve it.” 

Eliot laughed, loudly, and swung him around, messing up his perfect suit. Now, Quentin didn’t give a damn about his own clothes, but when Eliot let himself be less than perfect - that was when it got interesting. And extremely attractive - which was something he was going to mentally acknowledge and then push down again. 

“Just let me fix you,” Eliot turned his back to the ballroom, seemingly uncaring of the angry look Margo was shooting at the both of them. “I can’t believe you still can’t do this. I imagined you would have figured it out by now. It’s like you enjoy being fixed up like this.” 

Well, he did. He liked it when Eliot crowded in close, playing with the tie wrapped around his neck before actually getting down to business. He liked it when Eliot used his hands on him, especially how competent he was, how those strong hands with the long fingers managed to easily manipulate the fabric. He liked the little furrow of Eliot’s brow as he concentrated, liked staring at that face so close to his, liked seeing how Eliot had somehow forgotten to shave this morning. His jaw was darker with the hint of stubble and Quentin just wanted to lick it. 

Fuck, that was a terrible idea. 

“There,” Eliot fixed up the knot, centering it perfectly. “All better. No murder necessary.” 

Quentin did not whimper as Eliot tugged slightly on the knot to see if it would hold, no he did not - only he did. And he certainly didn’t log the experience in the drawer in his mind that was a collection of things that turned him on a little, but was going to ignore for the time being. 

As long as this didn’t make it into the book somehow, he was still good. 

“Fucking finally,” Margo was not amused. “And you actually ovaried up and learned how to wear a tie? No, never mind, this is too perfectly tied. This is Eliot’s doing. Clearly.” 

Maybe he would have been offended if he had any skill whatsoever at making himself look decent in a suit. But right now, he just tried not to roll his eyes at Margo’s dramatics - because she would actually murder him and wear his skin as her wedding dress. 

Gruesome, but accurate. 

“I knew you’d recognize my handiwork, Bambi,” Eliot preened ever so slightly. 

These two were actually twin souls, soulmates - of a whole other kind than Margo and Fen. It was usually nice to watch, seeing them so in sync that they basically knew everything about each other. And the parts that they did not know? Didn’t matter, because the support was still there, unspoken. So it was nice, except that Quentin was worried that now their connection was back to the way it used to be, they no longer needed him. 

Margo had held out for a while, holding on to her anger about Eliot’s departure and the way he was never around - but clearly that was all over now. 

“Margo,” Fen jumped in the middle of the reunion. “Time to dance!”

“Right,” Margo smiled at her fiancee indulgently. “So, you’re here because you’re in the wedding party and there is some traditional Fillorian dancing that we need all of you to be ready for.” 

Clearly, Quentin was screwed. He was just not a good dancer, and just the thought of having to dance and perfectly follow choreography in front of a ton of people staring at him and judging his every move… It was giving him serious anxiety, and he knew it was not going to magically get better before the wedding. 

But Margo wanted him here - he was the best man, and this had always been a part of those responsibilities. He’d said yes to her, had been incredibly flattered that she even considered him for this. And that meant that he was going to have to ovary up as Margo would say it. 

“Dibs on Q,” Eliot called out, before anyone could say anything. 

Not that anyone looked like they wanted to fight Eliot for him - they’d sooner fight him to get a chance at Eliot. He couldn’t blame them for that, because Eliot was graceful and moved like he’d attended Regency balls both in past lives and in his current one. Eliot was going to make anyone who partnered with him look good because he led them. 

And apparently that person was going to be Quentin. 

“Why?” Quentin stared at him, wide-eyed. “Why would you do that?” 

Eliot looked pleased as punch - and wasn’t that a funny expression? Not the point, but it was a nice distraction from staring at Eliot’s… everything. He was dressed in a three piece suit - which wasn’t a new look for him, Quentin had seen it before - but this one was perfectly fitted to him, and unlike what he’d seen Eliot wear before. 

The shirt was deep blue, patterned with dots - larger brown ones and smaller ones that seemed more lilac to his untrained eye. The vest was that same lilac lavender grey hybrid that suited Eliot so well. The slacks were - fitted to his body and Quentin’s poor bisexual heart could hardly take it. This wasn’t even the suit he was wearing for the wedding itself - not the right colors. 

It was just going to get better slash worse from here. 

“Because I’m going to prove it to you once and for all,” Eliot looked positively smug now. “You are not a terrible dancer - that’s your anxiety talking. Sure, you’re not a great singer, but your dancing is totally passable. And it’s going to be better than that with a solid partner. Enter: me.” 

Margo was gloating at the both of them as she danced by, Fen following her strong lead. She probably knew exactly how much Quentin was struggling at this moment, and she was only encouraging that. Because she still held out hope that they’d patch things up? Probably. That sounded like Margo. 

She didn’t like Alice - and that was not something he was getting into at this point. 

“Are you going to try and work miracles?” Quentin had to say something to keep the conversation going. 

Everything was just so stressful right now. Who could blame him for wanting to dance in the arms of a cute guy he’d always had feelings for after being cuddled by him all night long? 

He could blame himself, apparently. He was always good at that. 

“If you get out of your head, I will,” Eliot held out a hand, because he was just that extra. “I can work my magic on you. Well, not actual magic, though I’m sure there are spells to help with dancing as well as other movement. But you don’t need those. All that you need is just to follow my lead - I won’t let you fall. Trust me.” 

Trusting Eliot wasn’t supposed to be the scariest part here. He’d trusted Eliot with his life for years upon years upon years, so why should this be any different? It was different, though, because this was terrifying - dying wasn’t, not always anyway. 

But letting his hand hold Eliot’s, letting himself be pulled into the very basic waltz that Margo was currently overseeing while Fen danced with her father - that was the true scary bit. Not the waltz, he could probably handle a waltz if the song wasn’t too fast. Eliot though, Eliot was the scary bit, because he’d always had too much power over Quentin and sometimes keeping his distance was all that he could do to not make the same mistake over and over again. 

This was why it was almost good that Eliot had been away so much. 

“Okay.” 

With a heavy sigh that he was hoping Eliot wouldn’t take offense to, Quentin put his hand in his friend’s, and waited for the world to swallow him whole. 

“Now, Q, darling,” Eliot clearly had no idea of the effect he had on him, “I know you know what a waltz is. I watched you do it at our official coronation party. You just have to get back into the rhythm of it. It’s just a count to three - and you’re a lot better at math than I am. Except for fractions and using them to make cocktails - I’m the expert there.” 

It was easy to smile at that, but somewhat less easy to step in close to Eliot and let him put a hand on his shoulder blade. That was proper posture, Quentin remembered that much. He hadn’t remembered how much Eliot’s touch felt like a brand on his skin, and not just because he still had the remnants of the brand there from… the Niffin. 

His wooden shoulder throbbed slightly to remind him of some of his less than perfect decision-making when it came to trusting people. 

“I can count,” he stubbornly tried to distract Eliot from noticing he was in pain. 

“I know you can,” Eliot pushed into his space, making him take a step back. “And you’re still terrible at this, Q. I can tell your shoulder is hurting.” 

Fuck. Well, great. And now Eliot was too close and Quentin just… reacted. He stepped back when Eliot got too close, which was exactly what the dance asked for, and he managed to step mostly in time with the vaguely familiar song that was playing. He’d heard it before somewhere, he was sure of it. But when? And where? And did it matter? 

“Sorry,” he narrowly avoided stepping on Eliot’s feet. 

They never even stopped moving, Eliot confidently leading them around the floor. “You’re probably apologizing for your shoulder as well, aren’t you?” 

Eliot knew him too well - far too well. But it was starting to be nice as well as painful now, so at least that was progress. 

“Just wait until we get to the hip thrusts,” Eliot knew just when to distract him. “I made Margo promise that I could get full Swayze without repercussions.” 

Yes, they did know of the Swayze in Fillory, and that was never going to stop being funny to him, even when he was supremely distracted by Eliot pressing their bodies too tightly together for this to be in any way a proper waltz. There was nothing proper about the heat rising in his body, about the way Eliot pulled him in slightly too hard after a turn, just so their bodies would be flush together once more. 

And there certainly wasn’t anything proper about the way that Quentin was helplessly reacting to all of it, his cheeks flushed and his eyes firmly on Eliot. Because how could he look away when Eliot was radiantly showing him just where they were moving with a flick of his eyes in a certain direction? How could he look away when Eliot was looking into his fucking soul? 

“Nobody puts Quentin in the corner,” he knew it was a silly thing to say, but he said it anyway. 

“Don’t get me started,” Eliot’s eyes were sparkling as the music changed. “I will lift you.” 

The waltz had passed so quickly, even though he was sure that several songs had passed before they were suddenly thrust into a much faster and bouncier kind of music. This kind of music reminded him of period movies, the ones Julia loved to watch and moon over. Quentin knew things about Mr. Darcy - and a part of him totally saw the appeal. 

“I dare you,” Quentin leaned in even more as a parting shot. 

Oh, Eliot was not going to do it, because Margo would absolutely kill him for it, but it was still nice to think about. It was appealing, the idea of being weightless and relying solely on Eliot’s strength to keep him flying high. 

“Quentin Makepeace Coldwater,” Eliot pretended to be scandalized as they were both positioned on opposite ends of the room. “I do declare.” 

This was starting to seem familiar, because it was just like in Pride and Prejudice, when the entire room faded away and Darcy- nope, that was not the right place for his head to be. Too romantic. It wasn’t like that. Not at all. 

“Right,” Margo took the lead again. “This is where it gets traditional. Watch me closely - or watch Fen, if you’re on her side of the room.” 

Quentin was on Margo’s side - in so many ways, but in the dance as well, apparently. It was lucky that Fillorian dances didn’t have traditional male and female parts - which made sense in a country where rulers were allowed to marry someone from the same and the opposite gender. A three way marriage would have meant a three way dance as well, Quentin remembered from his pages upon pages of research that he’d done before writing his first novel. 

Not that this particular bit was allowed to make it into the books. Something about how it would alienate too many readers. 

A deep breath, and Quentin really tried to pay attention to what Margo was doing and just how she was moving. But she made it look easy, and it clearly was not. 

“I got you,” Eliot mouthed at him from across the room.

He always did, didn’t he? 

* * *

_ There had been a time where he couldn’t have imagined his life without Stella.  _

_ They basically grew up together, as she was the only person who didn’t think of Jason as an irredeemable freak who didn’t deserve to have friends. She wasn’t scared away by the hospital visits and the therapy that never seemed to work for long enough and the medication that always had the wrong dose or the weirdest side effects.  _

_ Nothing could scare Stella - except a forced separation that somehow put them on opposite sides of the war.  _

_ Jason hadn’t even known that she’d known there was a war to be fought. Stella wasn’t involved in the world of magic - she didn’t have the aptitude for it that he apparently did. But she pursued it anyway, and went to dangerous lengths to get the powers she thought she deserved. And so suddenly, she was involved with all the wrong people, and therefore involved in the opposite side of the war he was desperately trying to win.  _

_ It was bad enough that Stella was on the wrong side - but then she tried to use years upon years of knowledge about him to her advantage. _

_ How could he ever call her his best friend again? _

_ Could he ever? _

_ Excerpt from Impractical Applications of Magic (book #1 of the Unauthorized Magic series) by Quentin M. Coldwater _

Jules was his guardian angel, an actual goddess amongst humans who had not been sainted yet for some strange reason. She’d saved his ass so many times that he knew that he was never going to be able to repay her for it. 

And once again, he’d called her up in the middle of a crisis, and she dropped everything to help him through it. Now that was friendship. 

“I’m sorry,” he was apologizing yet again. “I keep doing this to you.” 

This was not the first time he’d called her up when she had better things to do. He just hoped that he hadn’t actually interrupted anything between her and… Penny of all people. Or one of the Pennies anyway, and wasn’t that so fucking confusing still? 

It had been years and he still had trouble wrapping his mind around it. 

“Eliot’s there, isn’t he?” Julia probably had powers of precognition. 

“This is your power,” he clung to his cellphone like a lifeline - which it was. “Forget all of that knowledge and goddess stuff, your actual superpower is knowing exactly what I sound like when I have Eliot Waugh problems. Again. Because I do. A lot.” 

Julia’s laugh was warm on the other end of the line, and it was a little easier to breathe because he’d managed to make her smile again. She wasn’t mad at him, they were still friends, and they weren’t letting it get bad again. They’d fixed it, years ago, but he still worried at times, when his mind was hopped up on anxiety and depression. The funnest of times, those. 

“That’s exactly it,” he pictured her typical decisive Julia nod on the other end. 

“I’m sorry,” Quentin repeated once again. 

“Oh Q,” she stopped him in his tracks. “I know this is terrifying for you, but maybe you’ll actually get some closure this time. Clearly you haven’t had any closure so far, if he still does this to you when you see him.” 

Of course Julia was right about that - she was right about almost everything, ever. Clearly the Knowledge discipline was a good fit for her. And the goddess-related omniscience certainly didn’t hurt either. Also, she’d known him for so long, and he told her everything these days. 

Because Julia had always been  _ his _ first, unlike Margo, and she was going to be on his side forever - they’d made that vow after… everything. They’d failed each other so hard in high school that it had taken them years to recover from it - but they’d managed eventually, somehow, and they weren’t going to let it happen ever again. 

“I slept with him, Jules,” the words just came out. “Just sleeping. We were in the cottage and the power went out and we spooned all night and I’m a terrible person.” 

There was a gasp after the first sentence, because that had sounded awful - and Julia actually kind of liked Alice. Kind of, because they still didn’t know each other that well, because there was a lot that Quentin was still keeping from Alice (magic being the biggest of those), and Alice wasn’t a particularly open person either. 

“The magic cottage?” Julia was not asking the pertinent questions here. “The cottage that you’re supposed to sleep in with your true love to make sure you stay together forever?” 

Okay, so maybe it was a pertinent question - one she probably wasn’t going to like the answer to. 

“The very same,” he answered, practically despondent.

“Well then,” Julia was stalling for time. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he spoke up before she could say anything else. “Because I have Alice and Eliot just doesn’t feel that way about me and never will, and we can just move the fuck on from this because it’s not like the magic will even work on us.” 

Fuck, was that a tear in his eye? Was that why his eyes were burning? It was supposed to just be the insomnia fucking with him again - he hadn’t been sleeping well the last few nights. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in ages, except for… that night in the cottage, because life was a dick and it was clearly out to get him. Sleeping with Eliot was not supposed to be the cure-all here. Or anywhere. Because there were real issues at work here. 

“Oh, Q...” Julia’s voice was still soothing, somehow. “You wanted it to work, though, didn’t you?” 

And that was the real issue. Because even though he had Alice, and they were happy and they loved each other, this was still Eliot. This was the man he’d thought of as the love of his life for so fucking long that he wasn’t sure he could ever stop thinking it. 

So he just admitted it. “Yes.” 

“I’ll be there in a few days.” Jules always knew just how to make him feel better. “And I can punch Eliot in the dick if he’s toying with you again. Or I can facilitate an adult conversation that’s about a decade overdue. Or both. Both. Both is good.” 

That made him laugh, actually laugh. Because the first time he’d seen the movie, they’d watched it together and joked about how that quote was never going to not be applicable - and he’d come out to her as bi because of it. 

It was special to them, and Jules always knew just when to bring it up. 

“Thank you, goddess,” he teased, already feeling a lot lighter. 

“Acolyte,” she returned, sounding like she was smiling. “Now tell me everything other than the spooning. Clearly there’s more. I know my Q.” 

She really, really did. And she was right, because there were all of these thoughts stuck in his head that he hadn’t been able to voice to anyone until now. The whole situation with Eliot kept mentally dragging him all over the place, and it was too hard to figure all of it out on his own, without hearing the words out loud and hearing Julia’s response. 

But sometimes all it took was just hearing his thoughts out loud and having someone listen to him. He didn’t even need an actual answer some of the time. 

“What’s the point of me feeling this way?” He ran a hand through his hair with his free hand. “I care about him way too much, and he’s just going to bail again right after the wedding, and I won’t see him again for another year or more. And it’s not even about my stupid feelings.” 

Because they were stupid, no matter how badly he wanted it to be different. Sure, he could hope that Eliot’s feelings towards him had changed at some point, but at what point did he have to start living his life again, to stop waiting? 

Three years ago. That was the answer to that. When he’d started writing the first book and everything came pouring out of him and he’d felt like maybe moving on was possible after all - especially after he’d met Alice a little over a year ago. She made him feel like it was possible, that someone could love him and he’d love them in return. She made him believe in love again. 

Julia just prodded him to keep talking. “Have you asked him?”

“I’m not asking him to stay,” his voice cracked on the last word, like he was still a teenager. “That wouldn’t be fair to anyone. If he wants to stay, I want him to stay. But he doesn’t want to, that’s why he leaves all of the time, even though Margo really wants him around. And I do too, even if he’s always going to be the guy who didn’t love me enough, who dismissed my feelings for him as mere experimentation. He’s still gonna be my friend. He always will be.” 

He felt the truth of those words, deeply. Because even if he was never going to have Eliot in the way that he’d wanted him as a teenager, desperately in love… He still wanted the Eliot who’d gone on missions with him, who’d snuck him his first alcoholic drink and taught him all of the best hangover cures. He wanted his friend back most of all. 

“Tell him that,” Julia insisted. “Tell him he’s your friend. Still. I think he might need to hear that. You two haven’t had a proper conversation in years, and you’re way past due.” 

She made it sound so simple, when it really wasn’t. The idea of actually having to go up to Eliot and saying those things to his face? Really fucking terrifying. 

“But it’s scary,” he sighed. “What if he still leaves?” 

“That could still happen,” Julia clearly wasn’t sugarcoating this. “But what if you saying something makes the difference?” 

Well, she had a point there. Both of the options could end badly still, but not acting on it might have had the more depressing odds. And finding out that he might have made a difference if he had said something was probably a worse feeling than saying something and having Eliot dismiss him outright. Probably. 

Not that Eliot would do that - even if this was just another rejection, Eliot was not going to be an asshole about it. Even if it just led to Eliot keeping in touch more as he was away, that would still be better than the way things were now. 

“I have to go,” Julia broke that to him ever so gently. “But I’ll be there soon. Just a few more days. And until then, you can always text me, and if you do call me, I’ll try to drop everything and pick up. I got you, Q.” 

She was honestly too good for this world and more people had to be aware of that - but the Julia for Supreme Goddess campaign could wait until the new year. 

“Thanks, Jules,” Quentin took another deep breath. “I love you.” 

A happy sound from the other end of the line. “Love you too, doofus. See you soon.” 

The dial tone sounded before he was ready to let go of Julia’s presence. Now he had to go be a grown-up about this - and he didn’t want to, even though he knew it was the best option. 

So he fixed himself up a little and went to find Margo, because maybe she was struggling with this as well. Maybe she knew just where Eliot’s head was at these days and if he was even considering staying after the wedding. 

That was just minimizing the risk, really. Like a true coward. 

Sensible was the polite way to say it, but really, he was just scared. Because if Margo’s requests for Eliot to stay hadn’t made a difference, what made him think his would? He was just another voice making requests he had no right to make. He was asking for things Eliot was under no obligation to give - and Eliot hadn’t been all that inclined to listen to him over the course of the last ten years. 

It wouldn’t surprise him if that hadn’t changed. 

But like Julia said, it was better to risk it than to wonder if he could have made a difference. And he was really past due for a proper conversation with Eliot. About a decade past due. 

So maybe after he’d talked to Margo, he’d pull himself together and finally talk things through with Eliot. Maybe he’d have the courage this time around. 

But then he heard voices - more than just Margo. 

“Bambi, you know I can’t,” Eliot’s voice sounded from Margo’s room. 

“You won’t,” Margo was probably rolling her eyes. “There’s a difference. Look, clearly you and Coldwater are buddy buddy again. Or something - I have eyes. It’s like Brakebills all over again, with more drama and less biphobia. I presume.”

God, he really fucking loved Margo sometimes, even when she was so embarrassing that he could hardly stand it. That last bit was so pointed, so sharp, that it probably left a mark on Eliot even though they were just words. Margo didn’t actually have weapons - this time. Sorrow and Sorrow were safely behind lock and key - Quentin hoped. 

“I know,” Eliot sounded tired. “I was an asshole.”

Quentin wanted to be in the room for this conversation, but he also wanted to be anywhere but in the room. Because they were talking about him and it was making him anxious. He didn’t want to hear any of the embarrassing pow-wows his friends had about him. He didn’t want to know what they really thought of him. 

But that was the mental illness monkey talking. 

“Let me guess,” Margo reigned triumphant. “You still haven’t talked about it with Q, because you’re a fucking coward who doesn’t want to deal with feelings. And with your damn mistakes. You hurt him, Eliot. A lot. And then you bailed, because for some reason, you couldn’t even be his friend anymore.”

That was the shittiest part. It had been the worst fucking thing to deal with, the fact that Eliot didn’t even know how to be his friend anymore after Quentin had revealed his stupid feelings. When it was Eliot who’d done the rejecting, and the hurting, and the invalidating of Quentin’s sexual identity. 

Because apparently he wasn’t bi enough to qualify, apparently he was just experimenting, and if they hadn’t been on that mission, nothing ever would have happened between the two of them because Quentin was straight. Eliot had decided and he wasn’t going to let Quentin change his mind - he’d made himself the authority on a topic he clearly didn’t know enough about. 

And Quentin was hurting, so much, because Eliot also pulled away from everything else. From everything but partying and the mysterious new boyfriend he just so happened to find exactly at that time, which… Fuck him. 

Maybe Quentin was still angrier about that than he’d previously imagined. Maybe because he’d never gotten the chance to say that to Eliot. Not to his face. He hadn’t been around enough for that. 

And now he wasn’t even going to respond to Margo calling him out on it. 

“If you do plan on staying,” Margo started, and Q’s heart was in his throat, “you have to make this right first. No excuses.”

Wait, staying? Eliot had mentioned staying? When? For how long? Because of him?

No, that last one was just silly and he never should have thought it. This had nothing to do with him - because that would have been bad. 

Fuck, why was he still in love with Eliot? 

Quentin ran away before the conversation was finished. He needed to process. 

* * *

_ All the seven keys, finally in the same place. They’d done it, somehow, and even though he was having trouble looking Hale in the eyes, and Summer had to make a volatile deal with her usurper… They’d managed somehow.  _

_ Stella had all the seven keys - Stella was here as if she’d been a part of this from the very beginning, instead of having started as an angry frenemy with a serious grudge against the wrong people. It hadn’t been their fault that her memory had been wiped, and that this only led to terrible things happening to her.  _

_ But Stella was here. She was with them. She was on Jason’s side again, like she’d been once upon a time when they were just insecure children who didn’t have anyone else.  _

_ “Right,” Summer tried to take the lead. “This is everything we need. We have to do it now, before that monster comes back. Maybe if we’re quick, she won’t find out that we tried to kill her brother. She probably won’t take too kindly to that.” _

_ And yes, there was a monster too, two of them actually. A brother and a sister with no name and a terrifying reputation. The boy hadn’t looked scary when Hale had tried to take a shot at him, but appearances were always deceiving. Jason didn’t even want to consider how the sister was supposedly the older one, the more terrifying one, the one with the plans.  _

_ The boy had sounded too young to be a monster - like the most innocent psychopath that Jason had ever met. Not that he’d met many, other than his favorite children’s book author.  _

_ Now was not the time to get into that.  _

_ “We just need to put the keys back where they belong,” Stella clung to them tightly, leaving an impression in her hand. “The spell is prepared. It needs all of us - unity. Arjun, Jade, Trevor, Summer, Hale, Jason. And myself. That makes seven. Seven is a powerful number.” _

_ Stella was ridiculously smart, and even Summer looked reluctantly impressed. Hale however, was still not happy that they were working with Stella at all, after the problems they’d had going up against her last time. Hale felt like she’d betrayed them before, and she’d do it again. But Hale felt a lot of things that were extremely wrong.  _

_ He could just deal, until they’d brought magic back to everyone.  _

_ They needed Stella - she was the only one who could do it.  _

_ “Eight.” _

_ Who was that? That was a women’s voice. It sounded familiar, like he’d heard it before somewhere. Was this the sister? Had they met her before?  _

_ Jason could have sworn that the guard had said that the sister had been under lock and key for centuries, and she’d never managed to escape. But what if the guard had been wrong? What if… _

_ “Olivia,” he stared at his not quite girlfriend’s familiar face. “Why? What? How?” _

_ Her glasses reflected the eerie light of the room, and her clothes were darker than the things she usually wore, but it was definitely her. This was Olivia.  _

_ “I need the keys, Jason,” she turned to him, correctly identifying him as the weakest link. “The fate of the world depends on it.” _

_ Excerpt from the first draft of Untitled Impractical Applications of Magic sequel (book #2 of the Unauthorized Magic series) by Quentin M. Coldwater _

So, how much was Alice going to hate him for this plot twist? The evil all along girlfriend was terribly trite, and he kind of hated himself for writing it, especially when his relationship with Alice was currently such a source of concern for him. 

But he was blocked, and completely sure that he could pull it off, that he could reveal motives that made sense for the character of Olivia, just like he’d managed to make Stella’s arc meaningful in the last book. Next time, he was going to have to pull this one with a male character though - while people loved his apparently nuanced portrayals of his female characters, pulling the same trick three times was trite. And hurting his female characters too much was not something he was interested in - he was not fridging anyone. 

Maybe in book #3, Hale would… Something was going to happen to Hale, clearly, because he’d finally managed to get somewhere with Jason and Quentin knew from years of watching television, that couples were not allowed to be happy. Apparently that was just boring, and something was needed to shake things up. 

Just before Jason and Hale finally managed to make it work, the monster was going to come into play somehow. Possession was creepy, but if he managed to do it right, it could work. And then tragedy might strike before they managed to get Hale back. But he couldn’t kill Hale - not a character who’d apparently been such an inspiration to people. 

Wouldn’t it be a twist if he killed off Jason instead? His own main character! 

Wouldn’t that make him a terrible person? It would make him someone who’d given people who’d been dreaming of a storyline like this something they wanted, only to destroy it before he actually had to write a canonically queer relationship. It was going to land him on all the “Bury Your Gays” pages, and while it was going to get his writing a lot of attention, killing off queer characters had never been a revolutionary twist. 

It was just bad writing. And Quentin Coldwater was a lot of things, but a bad writer? Only in his most depressed state, maybe. And even then, he could do better than that. 

“So, your girlfriend is coming?” Julia was just staring at him, wide-eyed. 

He’d completely blanked on her in the middle of a conversation. At least Julia knew what his “mentally writing the next chapter of my book” face looked like, so she didn’t take it too badly. She’d seen it at least a dozen times before. 

But this conversation was… not something he should have interrupted, not even because he was finally feeling inspired. Because any second now, Alice Quinn was going to arrive in Fillory, and Julia was not the only one who was freaking the fuck out about that. Sure, Margo had promised that it was possible to make it work (with magic, of course), and she wanted him to have the opportunity to have a plus one, just like anyone else… But still!

“Magic,” Quentin did jazz hands, because somehow that seemed like a good idea. “Margo has spells that will keep her from questioning the weird stuff. And how could I not invite her after Margo had made such an effort for her? For me?”

This wedding was going to be the most awkward one he’d ever attended, and he’d been to his mother’s wedding. That was weird enough, with his Dad not quite sick yet, but not doing well enough to go without Quentin at his side. And his mother marrying a woman brought out all of the bigoted comments, so that was… awful. 

Maybe this wedding wasn’t going to be as awful, but it was certainly going to be awkward. Alice didn’t know anyone but him, and he had a whole bunch of complicated backstories with these people that he was never going to be able to explain to her. Because magic was real, and Alice either didn’t have the aptitude or wasn’t allowed to know for some reason. 

“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” Julia was partly amused, partly worried. 

“My life is a cosmic joke,” Quentin ran another frantic hand through his messy hair. “Look, I hate to ask, but can you just… Make sure Eliot and Alice don’t spend a lot of time alone? Or Margo and Alice? Oh, fuck, my friends are probably not going to like my girlfriend. Are they?”

No, they were not going to like Alice - at least not initially. Margo had both a weirdly inflated sense of what kind of person he deserved to be with, and a very critical eye of any mistreatment of women. Quentin’s confusion over Eliot and his accompanying feelings probably qualified as mistreatment by her definition. And he couldn’t blame her for that one. 

She was right to be concerned. He hadn’t cheated, but… 

The fact that there was a but, and that it was even an issue, that didn’t bode well for Alice. For Eliot, however… 

“Margo will get over it,” Julia was a bit harsh, but fair. “She will, because she cares about your happiness. She might not like Alice, but she’ll make sure you treat her well too. Fen has mellowed her a bit, so I’m not too worried about her.”

It was very obvious who Julia was worried about, and it had very little to do with Eliot and Alice both being stubborn, strong personalities. It had everything to do with Eliot’s possessive nature, that mostly seemed to come out around Margo and sometimes Fen. But if it was triggered in relation to Quentin, well, Alice was going to have some issues with him. 

“Eliot,” Quentin was already picturing the worst case scenario. 

“He might be a problem,” Julia openly acknowledged the issue, because she was probably the bravest person he knew. “Because he’s petty, and he’s possessive when it comes to you. You have no idea of the shit I went through before he allowed me to be your friend again. Worth it, of course, but still. It is hard to get into his good graces, and it’s a good thing that I’m stubborn enough to ignore him. Alice doesn’t know him, though, and she might not understand where it’s coming from. How much does she know about Eliot?”

Both not nearly enough and far too much already. Eliot’s role in his life simply wasn’t easily explained to anyone, let alone a romantic partner. 

“Eliot?” Alice made an entrance at the worst time. 

“My friend, Eliot,” Quentin was already sweating. “He’s Fen’s best man. Man of honor. I’m not sure which title they’re going to settle on for the ceremony. We went to high school together, once upon a time. With Margo. Margo and Eliot took me under their wing, sort of.”

That was the PG explanation, the one that didn’t take into account that he’d thought Eliot was the love of his life for the longest time. And that a part of him still thought that way, and tried to explain that to people without the romance being a factor. Platonic soulmates were totally a thing - they just weren’t a thing for him and Eliot. 

“I remember,” Alice nodded pointedly, sharply, a common gesture for her. “Hello Julia. It’s nice to see you again.”

Wait, was that Alice pointedly changing the subject or did she really not see the awkwardness in his explanation of the Eliot Waugh phenomenon? Either way, not helping the anxiety. 

Everything was beautiful, the palace decorated to take full advantage of the imminent (magical) snowfall that would happen just after the last guest made its way inside. It was like a Christmas holiday from a Hallmark movie. Real life didn’t get perfect snow like this, even on the US East Coast. He was used to sludge or having to drag himself to the store in five to ten inches of snow (or sludge, there was always sludge in some really gross colors). Everything was beautiful and he was still stressed and worried and a little bit depressed. 

Though it was better than normal - opium in the air did that to people. 

“It’s so great that you could shift things around in order to come to the wedding,” Julia kept the conversation going like the champ she was. 

Julia was a gift and people didn’t acknowledge that enough. Well, maybe her actual acolytes did, because she actually was a goddess these days. But Quentin knew he could never repay her for everything she’d done for him. 

She’d more than made up for the terrible times, even though she seemed to disagree with him about that. 

“It’s more of a working vacation,” Alice smiled at Julia. “Quentin has a deadline coming up and I’m doing everything I can to make sure he finishes the first draft on time.” 

If the Eliot-related drama wasn’t going to kill him, this deadline certainly would. The avoidance was getting real, even though he’d made decent progress because of the Olivia-related plot epiphany. She was the perfect way to introduce the plots he was already contemplating for the third book - of course it had to be a trilogy, at least. Maybe even a quadrilogy. They’d make the last one into two movies, because that was Hollywood. 

Not that the movie deal he was imagining was even remotely real, and even then he thought the story would work better as a television series - on some cable channel where people were allowed to say fuck. Because these people were based off his friends - and there was no way he could picture them staying within the bounds of a PG-13 rating. Or worse, PG!

“It’s great that you’re so supportive of Q,” Julia managed to make it sound so kind. 

At least he could always count on Julia, because she was already drawing Alice out of her shell a little. Alice wasn’t great with new people, which was why it meant all the more to him that she was coming out here among strangers to do this with him. This was just for him, and it was a big gesture from Alice. 

Shit, did that mean he had to make a big gesture in return? He wasn’t good at those, especially not under pressure. Maybe it meant that he had to meet her parents? Though Alice didn’t talk about them much, and they weren’t close, so… Fuck, he had no idea what he was doing. 

And then karma struck yet again.

“Coldwater,” a familiar arm looped around his shoulder. “You didn’t warn me that the goddess would be amongst us mere mortals.” 

Well, this was going to suck. 

Not the being around Eliot, because that was one of his favorite things, and he didn’t think that he could ever get enough of it. And that wasn’t fair to anyone, but it was the way he felt because he was fifteen again and just meeting the most interesting boy he’d ever met. It was like glitter exploding inside of him, like mutating butterflies… All of that silly stuff that he should have grown out of. 

“You’re no mere anything,” Quentin blurted out, and immediately wanted to gag himself. 

“Thank you, King Quentin,” Eliot bowed, completely ignoring Alice. “I am honored by your kindness to a fellow King. Are you ready to attend the superior Royal Wedding?” 

Clearly Margo’s wedding was going to be superior to any other wedding, no matter what the British Royals assumed about their ability to throw a decent party. Quentin was not sure how the magic worked exactly, but Margo’s wedding promised to be exciting for those in the know, and perfectly normal for anyone else. It was going to be really interesting to find out what Alice was going to see - because it was going to tell him a lot about what she expected to see at a wedding like this. It was getting a peek into his girlfriend’s subconscious. 

Shit, was that creepy? 

“Is anyone?” Quentin tried to quip. 

He just didn’t want to stop talking to Eliot, even though there were people right next to him who deserved his attention too. One of those people being his girlfriend. His girlfriend, who had come here just to support him. 

“Royal Wedding?” Alice was trying to understand the conversation. 

Okay, so Alice did not expect this to actually be a royal wedding. So was the wedding going to look much less opulent than it actually was? How the fuck did this work? He was a terrible magician, he never could have pulled this off. 

“Margo is basically our Queen,” Quentin tried to smooth things over.

“High King,” Eliot pointedly corrected, like the shit he was. “She’s High King. Because why shouldn’t a woman be the King?”

While he would usually absolutely cheer this on, he knew that it wasn’t about feminism for Eliot, not this time. No, this was purely about being contrary, about confusing Alice and being an asshole just because he could. Because there was a stranger in their midst and Eliot had never liked sharing his toys - or so Margo had told him. 

Not that Margo had known Eliot before freshman year. Quentin still wasn’t sure how much she knew about Indiana Eliot, about what he’d left behind when he’d gotten his magic scholarship to Brakebills. Not that Quentin knew everything, but Eliot had certainly told him a lot of things (scary things, bloody things, murdery things) that weren’t public knowledge. 

But it wasn’t a competition. It didn’t matter who knew what - didn’t matter that Eliot clearly wasn’t the only one getting possessive here. Neither of them had the right to be. 

“Of course,” Julia was an excellent mediator, as usual. 

She shot a pointed look at him, but for once it wasn’t that easy to decipher. Was he being too quiet? Was he not paying enough attention to Alice? Was he being a shit boyfriend? 

So he shrugged a bit awkwardly, trying not to be too obvious about communicating with Julia, but also trying to convey that he didn’t have a fucking clue what she meant. But clearly that was a face that Julia was more than a little familiar with, because she’d seen it way too many times before. Quentin was always the clueless one. 

Wide-eyed, he tried to translate the following not quite subtle gestures. They had developed a little sign language of their own, mostly for simple phrases. 

Point at Eliot. Touch necklace. Rub eyes. Slight claw gestures and teeth out. 

Eliot necklace tired werewolf? No, that couldn’t be it. That was just silly. Wait, was the necklace… green? Eliot was jealous? 

“Jealous?” The surprise was too great, so he said it out loud. 

“I’m not jealous of Bambi,” Eliot huffed, somehow correctly assuming that Quentin was talking about him. 

But he was jealous of Alice. Jealous. Of Alice. Over Quentin? Why? 

Could he even ask about that without diving right into the hornet’s nest? No, he probably really couldn’t, and that was why Julia had at least tried to be subtle. 

“Of course you’re not,” he reassured Eliot. 

No, he wasn’t jealous of  _ Bambi _ . 

* * *

_ It was easier when they were on the mission, when it was just the two of them. When there were no other people who knew the people they were supposed to be - when Jason could just be himself without having to deal with anyone’s expectations and hopes and dreams for him. When he could even pause his own stupid expectations. When all he needed to do was focus on the quest, and be with Hale, and just… be. All he had to do was live.  _

_ And now it was just, suddenly over. Sure, he was young again and so was Hale, and… they were back in a world where they were never supposed to be like this, carrying hazy memories of things that had never happened, and never would again.  _

_ They were back in a world where Hale just… didn’t see him that way. Because he had options this time around, because he could do better than Jason - because the memories didn’t mean as much to Hale as they’d meant to him.  _

_ Jason was never going to forget about the life that they’d built together. About their family, his family. He had a daughter, a beautiful girl that he named after his mother, and for a little while he’d even had a wife. And mostly, he had Hale, beside him for a lifetime, steady and sure. He was always there, nothing Jason did scared him off, and even after… Hale helped him raise that girl into a strong woman, who became a mother, giving them grandchildren.  _

_ But that didn’t happen. None of it actually happened. And they weren’t even supposed to remember the stuff that didn’t happen. But Jason did.  _

_ Hale probably didn’t. And that was why… Maybe if he had the memories, he would want to try again. Maybe then he wouldn’t have dismissed Jason’s request for a date with a glib comment about how straight Jason was and how he was just interested because of the quest.  _

_ It was better to lie to himself that way.  _

_ Excerpt from Untitled Impractical Applications of Magic sequel (book #2 of the Unauthorized Magic series) by Quentin M. Coldwater _

“You’re jealous of Alice,” he just came out with it as soon as he had a second alone with Eliot. 

The wedding wasn’t happening until several hours from now - some Fillorian tradition about nighttime weddings, he had no idea what was up with that, because Plover certainly hadn’t mentioned that part of the culture in his book. Probably because he didn’t find it all that interesting, and he’d never described a wedding in his books. 

But this was not about the books - for once things were not about Plover’s book or Quentin’s book or about any kind of fucking book. For once things were about the drama in Quentin’s actual life, in a way that things hadn’t been since he was in high school (and a short bit of time after), when he was still around Eliot somewhat regularly. It felt like things were still like they’d been before Quentin managed to fuck everything up. 

But then again, judging by the way that Eliot was acting, Quentin was not the only one who’d fucked up. Because Eliot had set the boundaries back then, after their… not quite break-up, and now he didn’t even manage to adhere to them himself. Eliot was being exactly the kind of friend that just wasn’t fair to Quentin. 

“What was that, Q?” 

That fucking asshole - he heard it just fine. Sometimes Eliot was just so exhausting. 

“You know what,” Quentin was not going to step down this time. “You’re jealous of Alice, and you’re being a dick about it.” 

Margo was a little too busy getting married to call Eliot out on this shit, and that sucked, because he was kind of terrified of putting himself out there. But he was also really fucking happy for Margo, and he wasn’t going to ruin her wedding by being scared, because he wasn’t that much of a selfish, pathetic mess. He was better than that - he’d interrupted a date or two (or twelve) over the years, but he’d never dare mess with her wedding. 

Because Margo Hanson deserved every damn bit of happiness. 

So Quentin Makepeace Coldwater was just going to have to be his own badass friend and pillar of emotional support, and confront Eliot about his behavior. It was going to be difficult, and it certainly was not going to be fun, but he was going to do it anyway. He had to, if they were ever going to be able to move past this. 

“Why would I be jealous?” Eliot was acting, and doing pretty well at it too. 

“I don’t know,” Quentin was stepping up, being confrontational for once. “Why would you be?”

Technically, Eliot had no reason to be. It wasn’t like there was any kind of friendship time that Alice was taking from him. Eliot and Quentin hadn’t spent time together in fucking ages - and that was largely because Eliot was never around - and just a little because Quentin thought that hanging out with Eliot one on one was going to dredge up old feelings. 

And while he certainly wasn’t wrong about that last part, that was not the point. The point was that there was no reason for Eliot to be like this: possessive and petty and hoarding Quentin’s attention for himself, making Alice feel like an outsider on purpose. 

“I’m not jealous of your girlfriend,” Eliot was playing offended. 

And he was lying. Quentin could actually tell, and he wasn’t all that great at seeing through people most of the time. Was he actually getting better at this, or was Eliot just not as good at lying about this as he’d been in the past?

Oh, Quentin was very aware that Eliot must have lied about some things. Margo had told him so a couple of times. And Margo didn’t lie to him - brutal honesty was her thing. 

“You’re not being fair to me, Eliot,” Quentin decided to just ignore the lie. 

That was the crux of his argument, anyway. The fact that it wasn’t fair for Eliot to suddenly decide that he wanted to lay claim again, that Quentin was suddenly someone that he actually wanted to spend time with. That Eliot was just going to flirt with him and make Quentin feel all of the things again, and at the same time feel nothing himself. 

Because at some point Quentin had to get it through his thick skull that no matter Eliot’s behavior, it didn’t actually mean that he’d changed his mind about Quentin. 

“You don’t have feelings for me,” Quentin continued, suddenly having decided that he was going to put it all out there, once and for all. “Not like the way I do for you. I know that. You’ve made it perfectly clear. You don’t want me. You don’t want to be with me, and you were a biphobic asshole about it. But that’s not the point. We’re not getting into that again.” 

The last thing they needed to do here was to dig up more old hurts. Probably. 

Because they never did talk about this before. They had always just pretended that it had never happened, and Quentin had just second-guessed his every move around Eliot, trying to keep his distance and not make it more awkward than it needed to be. They eventually settled into some kind of normalcy, but it took so much effort all the damn time. 

And here he was, putting them back there. Just pushing all of his hurt feelings at Eliot like he had the right to do that, like Eliot owed him something. And yeah, sometimes he felt like Eliot did owe him something for that total asshole behavior, for invalidating Quentin’s feelings. But that was not productive - years of therapy had taught him that much. 

He took another deep breath, trying to feel at least a little more settled. “What we do need to talk about is what you’re doing now. Because you’re being an asshole to my girlfriend for no apparent reason. Because there’s nothing for you to be jealous of, Eliot. There is nothing that she’s taking from you here.” 

Looking at Eliot, no one was going to be able to tell if this speech was having any kind of effect on him at all. He had barely moved a muscle since Quentin started talking, and he hadn’t made a move to respond to any of it either. It was as if Quentin was yelling into the void - and for once it wasn’t the neverending suckhole that was depression. 

Eliot just… didn’t care. And Quentin needed to stop believing, or wanting to believe, that he did. 

“So you need to stop,” he felt the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. “You need to stop flirting with me, and you need to stop being a jealous asshole. You need to stop giving me hope and then shooting me down again. Because you haven’t changed your mind, have you?” 

For a while there, he waited. Because here was Eliot’s chance to speak up, to tell Quentin that maybe he had changed his mind, but… That was just wishful thinking, and Quentin was just letting himself get caught up in that again. Like a goddamn fool who didn’t know any better, who didn’t learn his damn lesson the first time. Like he should have. 

Still nothing from Eliot. Naturally. Not even a rejection, because that would have been too easy. 

“That’s what I thought,” Quentin sighed, his limbs feeling heavy. “Margo told me you were probably going to leave again after the wedding. I’m not sure if it’s work or an excuse or both, but I know you’re leaving. And if you are leaving, and you know you are… Just stop. Because you’re not actually following through on anything. You’re not going to be my friend again after this, because you clearly don’t want to be.” 

If he’d wanted to be, he would have spoken up by now. He would have moved, he would have done… something. Quentin had clearly been fooling himself about the flirting and the cuddling and the moments he could have sworn they’d had over the course of the past few days. He could have sworn they’d never spent the night together, had never danced, had never done anything. Because to Eliot, it didn’t matter. Once again, Quentin’s feelings were a lie. 

“I don’t know what I’ve done that makes you so scared of me,” Quentin threw it out there as a last resort, and immediately knew he’d hit the nail on the head. “But I’m not scared. I’m not that kid anymore. I’m an adult, and I’m with Alice, and you need to respect that. Because you don’t want me. You just want what you can’t have, like you can just come back and claim me.” 

Fear. That was what that was. Something about Quentin just… terrified Eliot. And maybe the teenage version of Quentin had changed that part of him, had pushed it back because he didn’t want to make Eliot any more uncomfortable than he already had. But adult Quentin, the actual fucking bestselling author, he was not going to do that. He was going to be bold and brave and make sure the truth came out and there was no more room for misunderstandings. Because he couldn’t stand to have any more of those. 

Quentin needed to be completely sure that it would never be Eliot, if he ever was to let go of that lingering bit of hope. It wasn’t fair to Alice at all, holding out hope that Eliot was going to come to his senses one day - and after this wedding, he was going to change. He was going to be better, be a better boyfriend and partner. Because there were going to be no more lingering thoughts of what if. Because he knew the truth now. No more guessing. 

“The stupid thing is,” he was hating himself at this point, for letting himself be so vulnerable, “I would have given you another chance. If you’d just talked to me and apologized for being a dick and said that you wanted to be my friend again. Because even though you’re never going to love me the way I love you, I always want to be your friend.” 

Sure, he could have pretended that he wasn’t getting choked up at this, but that would have been a lie that took too much effort to convincingly tell. And Quentin had never been a convincing liar, and he certainly was not going to start now. So he was just going to stand here and try to finish his speech before he couldn’t get it out any longer. And see, he was crying, and Eliot just stood there. Not doing a damn thing. 

One final nail in that coffin. 

“I guess that once again we want different things,” he felt himself deflating even more at that. 

Eliot hadn’t said a word during this whole tirade, and it didn’t look like he was suddenly going to speak up now. So he was done. Last attempt failed. 

That was it. The end of an era. 

“I wish you the best of luck with the new job,” he tried to be at least a little bit kind. “Margo is definitely going to punch you in the dick for leaving, but I’m sure that’s worth it if this is what makes you happy. You deserve to be happy.” 

Maybe that was a little passive aggressive, but he was choking on his words now, hating himself for shattering the fragile peace that they’d managed to establish over the past few days. They could have worked through this, maybe. Or at least continued to interact normally and not ruin Margo’s wedding. But it was too late for that now. 

Or maybe it had been too late for a long time. 

* * *

_ It was disgustingly easy to fall in love with Quentin Coldwater.  _

_ When he thought about the early days, the memories were vaguely blurry and aesthetically shaded in sepia tones. They seemed so young, they all did, even Bambi. Innocent they were not, except for poor Quentin, but they were so fucking young.  _

_ Margo teased him about his freshman boys, as if he’d done this a million times before - when he was sure that it didn’t count when he was a freshman himself. He’d met boys, been with them, explored what he did and did not like, pretended he was basically an adult when faced with an insecure little freshman who looked at him with so much awe in his eyes.  _

_ But he was so goddamn young and stupid. He enjoyed that feeling of superiority for a hot second, until Quentin fucking Coldwater grinned at him over a silly kid’s book and he was just so… painfully cute. He was so pleased with himself over such a small thing, and he didn’t care that he was missing a bunch of parties to read a book he’d read about a dozen times before. Because this made him happy, and a happy Quentin? Adorable.  _

_ So he’d let Margo take him in, handed Quentin his first alcoholic beverage, and pretended he wasn’t half in love with the idiot already. Because he was not Indiana Eliot anymore - and the new Eliot Waugh didn’t care about romance.  _

_ And he’d learned at a very young age not to have feelings for straight boys, no matter how confused they might get about their own straightness. His individuality, his pride in his own self-expression held an interest to those boys, and he’d fallen for that line once already. He wasn’t going to go there again.  _

_ Not even with the cutest freshman of all. Not even when the cutest freshman turned into the cutest sophomore, and then the cutest junior. The cutest junior who told Eliot that he was in love with him. Eliot told himself, and the cutest junior, that he was just confused. And he couldn’t blame the cutest junior, because Eliot could be extremely confusing. But it still hurt.  _

_ Because Eliot wasn’t putting himself on the line again to be a stupid experiment. Because it was just the quests, just Fillory, and never just Eliot.  _

_ So far, the cutest junior hadn’t proved him wrong. There had been a few women, short-term, from what Margo let slip. There hadn’t been another man. Not openly, but maybe secretly. Maybe he’d found someone that he didn’t want Eliot to know about, because he didn’t deserve to know after the things he’d said to him.  _

_ But he knew that was a lie. Margo would have rubbed his face in it.  _

_ From the secret memoirs of Eliot Waugh, unpublished _

Quentin had brought his editor girlfriend to the wedding, and it simply reeked of Bambi’s nefarious plotting. This Alice girl didn’t even know about magic, and she was still allowed to come? Margo was ready to do a whole lot of magic just so Quentin could have his little girlfriend with him on the most important day of Margo’s life? 

Okay maybe not the most important... Or was that rude? 

Still, it made no sense to him. Margo wasn’t  _ that _ selfless, she wasn’t doing it just for Quentin. There was no way, there had to be an ulterior motive. 

And maybe these stupid feelings that he didn’t want to be having were part of that ulterior motive. Well played, Bambi, well played. 

“Are you moping?” The lady of the hour had found him hiding in his room. 

Moping? Eliot Coldwater, moping? Please. Eliot Coldwater did not mope - but he did occasionally make a strategic retreat to his rooms in order to formulate a new battle plan. And contemplate a fabulous outfit to go with it. 

“Shouldn’t you be putting on your dress by now?” Eliot went for the distraction. “I doubt you need my help with that. I’m better at undressing people. Even ladies like you.”

She was definitely going to either roll his eyes at him or attempt to punch him. Either way, the High King was not amused, not at all, and Eliot had better at least attempt something that was going to fix that. It would probably be bad if the bride had to punch someone on her wedding day, though he wasn’t sure if there were any Fillorian rituals about that being bad luck. Quentin would know, but well, he definitely was not going to ask. 

Not after Quentin’s big speech earlier, the speech that certainly was not replaying itself in his head, on a fucking loop. Because Eliot had fucked up. He’d fucked it all up - he’d done what he thought he needed to do, and caused irreparable damage to one of the most important relationships he’d ever had in his pathetic life. 

So, yay. Great choices were definitely not made here. 

“Wow, you’re really trying to avoid talking about something,” Margo really was not going to let this go - not until he’d talked. “What did Coldwater say to you?” 

Because naturally, his every mood was related to Quentin Makepeace Coldwater. He wasn’t actually that boy-crazy (anymore?) and Margo knew better than to assume, even though she was one hundred percent correct in this particular case. 

“A number of things,” Eliot would prefer continuing to be vague about this. 

Even though he could probably reproduce most of Quentin’s speech from memory, that was not something that he felt like sharing, not even with his Bambi. Because he’d just stood there, like a fucking coward, and Margo was definitely going to be disappointed in him. And when (when, because there was no if when it came to Margo Hanson) she found out that he’d managed to make Quentin cry, he was doomed. Margo had picked her side in this a long time ago, and Eliot didn’t have the slightest hope of her being on his. 

Not after the shit he’d pulled. 

So distraction really was the best option here. 

“He really fucked with you,” Margo was laughing at him, which - fuck her for that. 

“I wish,” Eliot tried to project his usual teasing confidence. 

The innuendo was crude, but Margo was no blushing virgin - Eliot had first and secondhand knowledge of that. Maybe the joke would at least make her pause before ripping into him about what he was doing to poor Quentin.

What about what poor Quentin was doing to him, right now? Self pity was a marvelous thing. 

“You’re being an asshole,” Bambi saw right through him, damn her. “We all know you’d fuck him in a heartbeat, and that boy would let you. He’d hop on your dick right in front of his girlfriend if you ever showed the slightest sign of being interested. It’s something I’m hoping he’ll grow out of, because you don’t deserve him.” 

Not deserve him? At least Margo was right about something there. Eliot had never deserved Quentin Coldwater - could never hope to do anything that would make him deserve Quentin at some point. Eliot was a boy with too much blood on his hands and enough issues to outsell Vogue, with too much anger and pain in his heart to treat Quentin the way he’d always deserved to be treated. Eliot was mercurial and impatient and not enough. 

He’d never been enough for anyone, so why would Quentin be any different?

Sure, maybe Quentin wanted Eliot to fuck him. Sure, he’d noticed that Quentin was definitely still attracted to him - but what good would attraction do when he got underneath the surface layer of Eliot and saw the scared Indiana boy underneath? Quentin was going to see all of him and he would try to be able to live with it. He’d martyr himself, possibly forever (because Quentin wasn’t going to admit he’d made the wrong choice). And then Eliot was going to have to make him leave, for his own good. 

All he’d done was cut that timeline short, diminished the size of the hole in his cracked heart. 

“He wouldn’t,” Eliot pretended his ego wasn’t a little hurt here. 

Because for the first time, Quentin had said no. 

“Is that what’s making you all pissy?” Margo continued to be not amused. “Your fucking ego couldn’t take that blow, when all you’ve ever done is reject him whenever he showed the slightest bit of interest. Oh no, after you’d played with him for a bit first. Because the attention was flattering, even if you were always too much of a scared little nutsack to act on it.”

Wow, Bambi was really holding nothing back here. She was completely defaming his character, and there was very little that he could say to defend himself, because the mirror she held up to his face wasn’t as much of a funhouse mirror as he’d been expecting. As usual, Margo Hanson was not wrong - she never was, not really. 

“I don’t play with him,” Eliot really wanted to believe that he wasn’t that cruel. 

“Not on purpose,” Margo was going to give him at least that much. “You just give your feelings some room to breathe for a hot second, without considering that you’re still leading him on if you’re never going to do anything with those feelings. Because you’re scared.” 

This was not what fear felt like - Eliot knew exactly what fear felt like. Fear for his life, fear for Margo’s life and fear for Quentin’s. Fear that they were not going to make it to their high school graduation. This was different. This was no panic, this was… feeling sick and weak, and not being able to cling to Quentin or Bambi to make him feel better. This was staying quiet for his own safety. 

But wasn’t that a kind of fear too?

“I’m not,” Eliot tried to deny - knowing it’d be in vain. 

“You’re fucking terrified,” Margo laughed, actually laughed at him. “Because Quentin could actually last, unlike those boys you keep around for a month or so. Because this would be the real deal and you’re too scared to get hurt to even risk it. But guess what? Now you’re both getting hurt regardless. Because the feelings aren’t disappearing, dumbass. They’re still there even when you deny them.” 

Sure, sometimes Bambi laughed at him, but never about something serious like this. Not that they’d spent a lot of time together over the past few years, especially not talking about anything more serious than Eliot’s latest boytoy or the latest consulting job he was working in some exotic place. Because talking about his stupid loneliness, and how part of him wanted to stop running and part of him was terrified to do just that… Yeah, that wasn’t happening. 

And those feelings she was talking about? No. No way. 

“I don’t have,” Eliot started to defend himself. 

“I’m not in the mood to listen to the bullshit you tell yourself at night,” Margo actually interrupted him, something she rarely did. “You love Quentin Coldwater. And for some stupid reason, he still loves you too. Even though you haven’t been fair to him at all. You could actually make it work, maybe, if you pulled your head out of your ass and just told him. And groveled. I wouldn’t let him accept you unless you apologized and did a fuckton of groveling.” 

Eliot Waugh did not love - fuck, yes, he did. Of course he did. If he didn’t, just the idea that Quentin still loved him wouldn’t matter so much to him. It wouldn’t make him feel like this, like maybe he hadn’t fucked it all up earlier. If he didn’t love Q, that wouldn’t give him hope. 

Margo believed that there was still a chance there, and Eliot was just… torn. Because he was glad that there was still a chance, even though the odds of him taking that chance were practically nonexistent. And that had nothing to do with fear. 

“Apologized?” Eliot was not just going to -

“For being too scared to pussy the fuck up,” Bambi had a lot to say still. “You can’t keep doing that forever and still expect him to be waiting for you as some kind of consolation prize. My Q is no consolation, no second best. He deserves the best. I used to think that was you, but I’m not so sure now. Because Q deserves someone brave enough to fight for what he wants, someone who doesn’t keep running from his issues. Someone like this guy I used to know.” 

He loved her, his friend. This strong woman who should have been in her wedding dress, but was instead yelling at him because she knew that it would make his life better. Because she was fighting for Quentin, even though Quentin was already fighting for himself. But Bambi always knew how to get through to Eliot when he’d set his mind on something. 

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” Margo was finishing up here. “Step up. Fight for what you want. Which, in case I haven’t made it clear enough yet, is Quentin Makepeace Coldwater.” 

How was he supposed to do that? How was he supposed to just fix it? How was he supposed to just go for it when he’d been holding himself back from doing just that for about a decade now? What did he have to say to make it okay? What could he say? Could he say anything that would make it okay? Did he even want to say something? 

Did that even matter after Quentin’s speech? 

“He said no,” Eliot wasn’t pouting. 

“So you told him how you felt?” Margo asked, every inch of her a king. “You told him that you love him, and have for years, but were just too scared to tell him? And then he said no?” 

Fuck. That was just… Of course not. Of course Eliot hadn’t actually opened up his big mouth and talked to Quentin. Because he barely even admitted to himself that he had feelings, let alone admit it to the person he actually had those feelings for. 

She made it sound so easy, like all he had to do was say that one thing. Like all he had to do was to use that big mouth of his to his advantage, for once, instead of constantly putting his foot in it when it came to Quentin. 

Once again, Margo Hanson got everything right. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Bambi had to have the last word. “You didn’t tell him shit - again - so he shut you down. Which is his goddamn right. Fix it, El. While you still can.” 

It was probably already too late though. Margo hadn’t heard what Quentin was saying just now, she hadn’t seen the tears in his eyes as Eliot stayed quiet and stepped all over his heart yet again. She didn’t know that the time to speak up had already passed. 

“I see you’re not listening,” Margo looked at his half-packed suitcase. 

He couldn’t, could he? The risk was just… too big. His cutest junior turned cutest writer would just have to move on to his cute girlfriend. Because Eliot Waugh had nothing to say, no big speech to give to…  _ Oh _ . 

* * *

_ Jason was not the one having the hardest time with the new way of things. Hale and Summer were having more issues with not having that quick fix at their fingertips. They got used to pouring drinks through clever flicks of the wrist and rapid finger movement.  _

_ Oh, Hale could never know that he’d used that term to describe it. Not with his dirty mind.  _

_ But a world without magic was… easier when he was at home, even though his mother kept getting more and more sick, and there was nothing he could do. That hadn’t changed - there was no magic that could fix her.  _

_ But at school, the absence of magic was terrifying. They couldn’t get to the other lands, they couldn’t complete a single lesson. And if anyone was to attack them, they’d be practically defenseless. There were always dangerous beings in this world, and they were sitting ducks.  _

_ So clearly, he was doing fine with the whole anxiety and depression thing.  _

_ “I’m so bored,” Summer pouted.  _

_ “I need a drink,” Hale announced.  _

_ I need a quest, Jason privately thought. Maybe if he had a quest to complete, something to fix, he wouldn’t be so worried about what he’d done. Maybe if there was a way to bring back magic, he wouldn’t still feel the blood of a God on his hands. His, and his alone.  _

_ So he decided that he needed books. More books, anything that would help him figure out how to make the world work again. Maybe then his friends would help him, and everything would start to make sense again.  _

_ But Jason was fine. He was fine. He was totally fine.  _

_ He wasn’t fine.  _

_ Excerpt from Untitled Impractical Applications of Magic sequel (book #2 of the Unauthorized Magic series) by Quentin M. Coldwater _

The service was beautiful. Margo and Fen both looked stunning in their elaborate gowns, and they just looked so damn happy to take this step together. Quentin had shed at least a couple of tears during the ceremony, and he wasn’t even ashamed of it. 

Alice hadn’t been all that moved by it, but she didn’t know the happy couple like he did. And she was under a spell to keep her from noticing all of the magic that was powering the whole ceremony - that and all of the talking animals. They didn’t have those back home, and even though Quentin would have loved to catch up with some of them, he had to stick close to Alice now that the ceremony was over.

Because standing up for Margo on that makeshift altar, and seeing his girlfriend sitting there in one of the back rows of seats… It made him wonder if all of this was cut out for him, maybe, one day. If maybe he got to have a love like this. 

He wasn’t sure if it would be with Alice, though. 

“Maybe there should be a wedding in the second book,” Alice pondered as they sat together for the wedding dinner. “Maybe Arjun and Jade marry in the other lands - they are the most stable couple in the series right now, and the readers like a little romance. I know your books aren’t really about the romance, and people shouldn’t be reading it for that…” 

That was such a stupid misconception that some big name writers were keeping alive, and Quentin hated everything about it. What was wrong with reading stories about love? What was wrong with seeing potential relationships between characters and getting invested in the story because of it? Why was that a bad reason to like something? 

“People should be reading it for whatever reason they want to read it,” Quentin was passionate about that bit - well, about all of it. “If it’s the romance, or the mentally ill protagonist, or the queer characters, or the world building, or just the magic, or just because they think the cover looks cool. I’m just thrilled that they’re reading it at all. That they’re engaging with it.” 

Alice nodded along with it in that way that she had that was all pacifying her author and not one bit just talking to her boyfriend. Yeah, so maybe dating his editor was a bit messy at times, but Alice was still a really cool, really smart person. And he really did care for her. 

“Dance with me, Q,” Margo suddenly dragged him from his seat. 

Clearly saying no wasn’t even an option here. Which made sense, because it was Margo’s wedding, and it wasn’t like he’d been taking those dancing lessons for nothing. And since Fen was dancing with her father, Margo didn’t want to stand aside - she wanted to dance with family too. Which was why she probably should have grabbed Eliot. 

“Little brother,” Margo was leading, naturally. “Don’t look so sad. It’s my wedding. I know El is being an idiot, but you stood up for yourself. Like the badass I knew you’d be.” 

She was a great dancer - because she was great at everything - and she was making it feel a whole lot easier to be dancing in front of a whole nation of people (and animals). She was supporting him, and she was so beautiful and strong and he loved her so damn much. Margo Hanson was so important to him, and this was just proving it. 

“Thanks for letting me be your gentleman of honor,” he teased her. 

“Very honorable, baby Q,” she was smiling almost as radiantly as her wife - her wife! 

The Fillorian traditional that was playing was comforting - it was Fen’s choice, a song that reminded her of the old days before she was chosen to marry the High King. A song that reminded her of the exact moment she fell in love with Margo Hanson, even though she was supposed to marry Eliot instead. It was simple, lovely, and it made Fen smile as her father lead her around the floor. It made Margo smile to see her smile. 

“You do know what’s next, right?” Margo twirled him and he almost tripped over her dress. 

“What’s next?” Quentin asked, even though he already knew - and dreaded - the answer. 

That was enough of a reason for Margo to none too gently punch him in the side. Because they both knew where this was heading, and there were several awkward minutes ahead - mostly for Quentin, because Margo was going to get to dance with her wife. 

“I yelled at him for you earlier,” Margo revealed, too casual about it. 

“Margo,” he didn’t have the words for her, for this wonderful friend. 

“He needed to hear it,” she shrugged, her jewelry clanging together with the movement. “He hasn’t been fair to you, and if he’s going to pull his head out of his ass at some point, he had to hear that from a relatively unbiased observer.” 

Relatively unbiased, really? He was sure that his face was showing that skepticism. 

“Shut up, you know I’m on the side that includes your happiness, dumbass,” she pushed him aside as soon as the song ended, blowing him a kiss on her way to Fen. 

Yep, that definitely needed that dumbass at the end, otherwise it would have been way too nice for Margo. He watched her dance off, watched her reach Fen, and watched the happy couple get ready for their next dance. Not the first, not the last, just the next one. 

“Can I have this dance?” Eliot was suddenly right there, in front of him. 

“Uh,” Quentin started to stammer, because…

Because he knew this song. Because this was not the song that had been agreed upon by Margo. This was not a song that Margo cared about all that much, but it was by an artist he’d been a fan of since he’d been a stupid teenager - she spoke his truth sometimes, and her music was like a confessional and it was a guilty pleasure Margo had always teased him about. 

So why the fuck would she play a Taylor Swift song at her wedding? 

“Oh Bambi,” it seemed like Eliot recognized it too. 

“What did you expect?” he asked, sharing a conspiratorial grin. “It’s Margo.” 

This was not a song they’d listened to back then. This was a new song, a song he’d fallen hopelessly in love with the first time he’d heard it. The song spoke of the kind of love that he wanted for the rest of his life, the kind of love he used to imagine he’d have with Eliot one day. What he’d hoped to get with this magnetic force of a man… 

Eliot was touching him now, he had the proper hold on him, pressing him close for no real reason. One last chance, one last dance. Quentin could do one last dance. He could press his body against Eliot’s and pretend for a moment that this was their song, and their dance, and their love. He could close his eyes for a little while and just let himself follow along, trusting Eliot not to lead him astray. Trusting Eliot blindly to keep his him safe. 

“I love this song,” he told Eliot, his ear to Eliot’s heart. 

“Of course you do,” Eliot’s soft chuckle shook them both, because they were that close. “You’re such a hopeless romantic. It’s a good song, though. Always reminded me of you.” 

Had Eliot heard this before and thought of him? Had he thought of what they’d had together in the life they never actually led? Quentin just thought of the summers he’d loved Eliot, and how he got greedy for more, for all of them. How he’d started picturing another life, a mix of the one they’d lived and something new and just theirs. Honoring the memories and making room for the new ones. Going where the other person went, sharing their table, sharing a bed. That kind of forever love that he’d once thought he’d seen in Eliot’s eyes. 

Turned out, those were just his own feelings reflected back at him. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” he had to tell Eliot, give him one last chance. “I have a book to finish, and I only have a couple of days left to do it. I have to finish it this year.” 

They were still moving, perfectly on rhythm, because Eliot would never let them be anything less than perfect. He was good at that, keeping up appearances, making things look beautiful enough so people couldn’t see the damage underneath. It was the perfect allegory for Eliot himself - a damaged Indiana boy putting up a beautiful wall to hide behind. 

“I’m leaving too,” Eliot’s face was carefully blank. 

“New job?” Quentin asked, even though he didn’t really want to know. 

Why would he want to know about the reason Eliot was leaving him this time? This final time, because the project was over. The wedding was over. The only thing tying them together had been loosened until Eliot could slip away into the night. Possibly for good. 

It was never going to be like this again. 

Eliot hummed a vague answer to the question, and the song started to fade out. 

“I hope you’ll be happy,” Quentin told Eliot, and then he let go. 

* * *

_ Was it really up to Jason to make the speech this time? He was terrible at those. This was why they usually had someone like Summer lead. She was inspiring and terrifying at the same time, while Jason was neither of those things.  _

_ Even Hale would be a better choice - he rarely cared about things, but he was appealing to all sexes and really good with words.  _

_ They were up against the Gods themselves, and now Jason’s words were going to have to make the difference. Like he was the leader, the protagonist in this story. When he was actually just the sidekick (if he was being generous), and there was no way that people followed the sidekick. No one would follow him, no one would listen.  _

_ He was never supposed to be a leader.  _

_ This was terrifying, and he needed someone else to do this. Simply anyone would do, anyone but him. He wasn’t the brave one here - he was just the scared boy who just tripped into this because of a random invitation and his stupid curiosity that would not let him get rid of it. The aforementioned curiosity was absolutely going to get him killed someday, and he was starting to get really worried that today was going to be that day. _

_ They were Gods for a reason, and he was just a human with a bum shoulder and a couple of magic tricks. And he wasn’t even all that good at those.  _

_ But no one else was speaking up. No one cared like he did. No one loved this place like he did, and that apparently made him the right person for the job. So he had to do it.  _

_ He took a deep breath, and started talking.  _

_ Excerpt from Impractical Applications of Magic (book #1 of the Unauthorized Magic series) by Quentin M. Coldwater _

Margo knew that it would have been a terrible idea to have Quentin make a speech in front of all of these dignitaries and important people. So she made sure he didn’t have to, even though he had a lot of words to say to her and Fen. He just… He did better when he wrote it all down, because there was no risk of stammering when all he had to do was write. Or type, mostly. 

So it came to be that Eliot was giving the big romantic speech. Because he was good with words, as well as being so charming that even if he did offend a couple of people, no one was going to mind. They were probably going to line up and ask Eliot to do them next. 

Such was the life of Eliot Waugh. 

It was just a shame that Eliot had all of these beautiful words now, when he hadn’t said a damn thing to Quentin earlier. He hadn’t had those words then - he hadn’t even opened his damn mouth. Yes, he was still more than a little bit angry about that. 

“Me and the brides go way back,” Eliot started his speech with that charming smile that usually got him everything he ever wanted. “It could have been me sitting there, and either one of those lovely ladies giving this speech. But alas, it was not to be.”

There was tittering, people gossiping about the engagement between Eliot and Fen, and Margo just rolling her eyes at the whole thing. Quentin snuck a peek at his own girlfriend, to see just how she would respond to Eliot’s patented… Eliot-ness. Alice mostly seemed confused, but at least she wasn’t judging them. 

“Because from the beginning,” Eliot continued, “they were a much better match. Your High King and High Queen have something incredibly special. They have a love for the ages. What people might call true love, and what they might think is easy. Because true love isn’t supposed to require hard work.”

That was a toxic fucking myth, that love was in any way easy, and Quentin was never going to use that in his books, not ever. Sure, maybe it hadn’t been true love (though he’d always imagined it was), but it had never been anything even closely resembling easy. There was always a struggle, a fight, something that wasn’t working perfectly, some reason that it could never work. Sometimes a supposed Prince Charming turned out to be an asshole with a superiority complex, and sometimes that true love was not mutual. 

A love like Margo and Fen’s… that was incredibly rare, and even then it still wasn’t easy. It hadn’t been easy for them. And it wasn’t suddenly going to be easy from now on. That was just not how things worked. 

Did he wish that things had been a little bit easier for him and Eliot? Oh hell yes. 

“It does, though,” Eliot’s speech was… not what he expected. “It requires two heroes, willing to be brave, and willing to take on this epic quest to last a lifetime. A harrowing quest, with a happily ever after as a reward. But you don’t know the person you’re traveling with, not yet.”

This was exactly the kind of metaphor that Quentin absolutely loved, and Margo probably only thought was great because it was romantic and made Fen happy. It was odd for Eliot to use it for Margo, but it made sense for Fen, so clearly Quentin was just reading too much into it, and he needed to not. Because not everything was about him and Eliot. 

“You get to a point where you realize,” Eliot was starting to say kind of familiar words here, “that someone actually loves you. Someone good, someone true, they love you.” 

The words he used were so precise, so exact, meant to evoke one single moment between two messed up teenagers with a lifetime of memories. How could he turn such a painful rejection into beautiful words of love like this? How did he even remember even a small percentage of the exact words that had been used a decade ago? Sure, Quentin remembered every moment of it, but it was kind of a formative experience for him. 

Surely that was not the case for Eliot. For him it was just the most awkward in an ongoing series of rejections. So why did he remember?

“And they go out on a limb,” Eliot glanced at Quentin, briefly, “and they let you know that they love you. It may be a little crazy, but you know they do.” 

More exact words, more of the way Quentin had opened up his entire heart to someone who callously tossed it aside. Was he actually trying to hurt Quentin with this? What was he trying to say here, in front of all these people? Why was there a secret message just for him? 

“And that moment,” Eliot was actually getting a little choked up then, “that’s a moment that truly matters.” 

This was new, though. This was not something that he’d ever said to Eliot, but since Eliot was still oddly focused on him while ostensibly talking about the beautiful brides… Maybe this was also meant for him, maybe this was also about him. Maybe this was about Eliot, and how he had finally found time in his busy schedule to apologize. 

Because it seemed like this was leading up to an apology of some kind. 

“And you can snuff it out,” Eliot was carefully not making eye contact with Margo now, “because you’re scared of how much you care, and you feel unworthy, but…” 

Oh, this was an explanation. And maybe the closest thing to an apology that he was ever going to get from Eliot. And even though he didn’t want it to, it was working. Because Eliot was speaking directly to him, with all of these people he should have been trying to impress right there. And Eliot had to have known that Margo would understand it now, he knew that he’d be humbling himself in front of her as well. But he did it anyway. 

“If you run away, you lose it,” those were Quentin’s words on Eliot’s lips. 

This time Quentin was the one who had to look away. Because while the reminder hurt, it was seeing Eliot visually relieving the shit he’d put the both of them through that was even more painful. It hurt, but it was also strangely, stupidly cathartic. 

And so he looked up, blinking away tears and avoiding his girlfriend’s gaze. 

“Only brave people love like this,” Eliot was completely focused on the happy couple now, as if this had never been about Quentin at all. “Without proof of concept, without any guarantees that it will work out. People like Margo and Fen.”

Proof of fucking concept. Fuck, Eliot. Fuck. 

That one was all theirs. That bit wasn’t for anyone but them. Because they had proof of concept, albeit under highly specific circumstances. And Quentin had pointed out the first bit, and Eliot the second. And he’d been right about that, but Quentin was still so sure that the circumstances were not the reason they had fifty years worth of proof of concept. It was more than circumstance - it was the two of them. They just… they worked. They could work. 

“I have learned so much from my friends,” Eliot said, followed by a look around the room that lingered on Quentin a bit too long to be unrelated to what he was talking about. “But if there’s anything in particular I have learned from them, it’s to be brave when it comes to love.” 

So, friends. At least Eliot could still refer to him as a friend. That was something, even though it wasn’t what he wanted. Well, he did want this, there were just other things that he wanted more, but that he was never going to get. Once upon a time he’d been brave (or stupid) enough to ask for them, but he’d been dismissed quickly and cruelly. 

He really didn’t think that was something that Eliot needed to learn from him. 

“Know that when I’m braver,” and here he looked directly at Quentin instead of at the happy couple, “it’s ‘cause I’ve learned it from you.”

Eliot stepped in closer at that point, and a small piece of paper dropped from his sleeve onto the empty plate in front of Quentin. The gesture looked accidental to anyone else, but Quentin absolutely knew better than that - this was Eliot Waugh after all, and Eliot never flailed or tripped or threw stuff around accidentally. He wouldn’t just put a note in his sleeve without having a plan for where that note had to end up. And clearly the plan was for it to end up with Quentin. 

So he opened it, and looked at the four words written inside. It wasn’t an apology, and it was no traditional decoration of love. But it meant everything. 

_ Peaches and plums, motherfucker. _

“To bravery,” Eliot moved away and raised his glass. “To the happy couple. To Margo and Fen!”

Quentin raised his glass, dumbly following along with everyone else, because his brain was no longer working. His heart appeared to have left his body somehow - or it was just stuck in his throat. Because shit, Eliot just actually did that. 

He clung to the note, unable to let it go, rereading the words on it every few seconds because he had to make sure that they were still there. And they were, every single time. 

“He’s in love with you,” Alice said it as if she were talking about the weather. 

“No, he’s not,” Quentin was trying to remain certain about that. “He told me he’s not.”

The note meant differently, but he wasn’t sure what to do with that. He was having so many feelings at that moment, and he just had no idea where to put them all. But he knew that most of these feelings were about Eliot, and none of them were about Alice. And that probably wasn’t fair at all, but it was hard to think too much about that. 

Was this what being in shock was like? Did he need to get a blanket somewhere?

“He’s an excellent liar,” she continued. “Better than you are.”

Alice knew. It was surprising, yet it completely made sense at the same time. He had never been accused of being subtle. He wore his heart on his frayed sleeves, for everyone to see and possibly take advantage of. Even the feelings that no one was supposed to see - especially not the person who’d probably be most hurt by them. 

“I didn’t,” he started to stammer. 

“I don’t deserve to be second best, Quentin,” her voice was soft, yet sure. “It’s not fair that you put me in that position.”

She was right. It wasn’t fair of him. He’d been a shitty boyfriend, and he really wasn’t sure that he’d ever be able to do better. And that was not on Eliot, that was on him. 

“Nothing happened, I swear,” he was less calm than Alice. 

“Of course not,” she returned. “You’re not that kind of guy. But I deserve better regardless, and I think you do too.”

Maybe they were both settling. Maybe this was good while it happened, but it wasn’t good anymore. Maybe they weren’t actually right together - which he knew, but didn’t want to acknowledge before. He wouldn’t have fallen right back into Eliot like this if he’d been perfectly happy in his relationship. That wasn’t an excuse for what he did - because he still definitely fucked up - but it was a reason. One that made sense. 

“We are good together,” Alice told him. “Just not beyond work. We make better colleagues than… anything else. So I’m going to go. And you’re not going to tell me what you’ll be doing after I leave. Maybe after a little while, I can be happy for you. I just need time.”

It was hard to find the right words to say to that, to respond to what was essentially the calmest break-up he’d ever been a part of. What did one say to the girl who’d just broken up with them, and walked away before he did something that hurt their professional relationship as well as their personal one? 

“Thank you,” he told her, hoping she would understand what he wasn’t saying. 

“I’ll try to get you a bit of an extension,” she pushed a lock of blonde hair behind her ear and ducked her head. “We both need a little time, I think. And space.”

He hadn’t fully understood how the January 1st deadline had been weighing on him until Alice said that, and he sighed, feeling the weight fall off his shoulders. He’d gotten a lot more writing done during the wedding prep than he’d expected, but it was still nowhere near a fully realized manuscript (or even a half-decent first draft). He needed that time, and he couldn’t blame Alice for not wanting anything to do with him for a little while - even professionally. 

So he didn’t watch her leave, and just trusted that the magic would take good care of her and return her to the place she’d departed from that morning. She was always planning on returning that night, instead of spending the night in his room, so this hadn’t been that much of a change of plans for her. And since Quentin was originally supposed to stay for a couple more days, to spend the holiday season with his friends, he could just do that. 

But he probably had to talk to Eliot first. 

Quentin looked around, trying to catch the eye of all of the party guests, trying to follow the people who were leaving with his eyes. He was looking for one specific person, and he simply couldn’t find them. There was no mess of dark hair under a crown worn by a tall man, no perfect three piece suit in a flashy color that no one else would dare to wear. 

No Eliot. Anywhere. 

* * *

_ It was hard to believe that Olivia had just waltzed out with the keys, harder to believe that he’d actually trusted her to know the plan. Hardest to believe that he was the one who ruined things for everyone yet again.  _

_ This was his quest, he was supposed to solve everything. They were supposed to all come together just in time to vanquish evil - wasn’t that how it worked in the old tales? Wasn’t that how a quest was supposed to end, with a couple of heroic tales and minor wounds and a strong connection between the questers?  _

_ But right now, they were just standing there, waiting for someone to have the solution. Probably waiting for Jason to have the solution, because this all started out as his quest.  _

_ The only solution he could see, though, was giving himself up. Was staying with the creature, the Monster, because it needed a keeper now. He could do that - that could be his next quest, one he was not going to fail at, like he had the last one.  _

_ Jason could make the sacrifice if that would fix the world.  _

_ The gunshot was loud, too loud, echoing in his ear. He didn’t think he’d ever been that close to a gun firing before. Magic was the only weapon used around him.  _

_ He turned to see Hale, holding the smoking gun in his trembling hands, the Monster’s vessel motionless on the floor.  _

_ “What did you do?” _

_ To be continued in book #3 of the Unauthorized Magic series _

_ Excerpt from the published version of The Tale of the Seven Keys (book #2 of the Unauthorized Magic series) by Quentin M. Coldwater _

He wasn’t sure why he chose to go back to the cottage. He probably should have tried Eliot’s room first, or Margo’s room, because Eliot would hide with her (or from her, in the last place she would expect him to be). It would have made more sense to look for Eliot elsewhere, but Quentin’s feet took him to the cottage without his mind getting a word in. 

Because it was where he wanted to be, where he wanted to find Eliot. Because Quentin was a writer, and the cottage was the perfect place for the final scene - no matter how it would turn out (though he was feeling a bit more positive after the speech). It was the perfect way to tie up the plot, because on his way out, Margo just so happened to tell him that she wasn’t going to need the cottage after all, but thanks for the effort. 

Which gave him a whole bunch of thoughts about the legitimacy of this whole thing, and they probably weren’t all that complimentary of Margo. Not at first, not when he was upset about being tricked, even though it was totally for his own good (and Eliot’s as well, presumably). No, the lie still hurt, at least for a little while, until he had the time to take a couple of deep breaths and consider Margo’s reasons for playing it like this. Sure, a significant part of it was probably because she could and because she thought it was going to be funny slash interesting, but she also did this to give him closure. To give him one last shot at a happy ending. 

So maybe… 

“Hey, Q,” Eliot was waiting for him in the room where they’d spent the night together. 

He was waiting in front of the fireplace for Quentin to come and join him, like that was just something that they did together all the time. Like it wasn’t just a once in a lifetime moment that Quentin was never going to be able to forget about. 

So maybe it actually meant something to Eliot too. 

“El,” was all he said in return. 

Because what else was there to say?

Everything he’d wanted to say to Eliot, or just to yell at him, had already been said. He’d said it earlier that day (or yesterday, depending on the current time). Eliot had been silent then, just like Quentin had been silent throughout Eliot’s speech. The one that doubled as an unconventional declaration of love, in front of all of those people that had no idea that was what it was. And now they were both silent. Because, well, to speak in the immortal words of Buffy Summers: where did they go from here?

It just couldn’t be as easy as this, as Alice letting him go so gently and Eliot being right here waiting in the middle of this atmospheric cottage. Quentin didn’t have it as easy as this, he didn’t get the romance without the fight of a lifetime. Or did he? Did he really?

There had been enough pain already, hadn’t there? 

“That was quite a speech,” Quentin decided to say something else after all. “Back there, what you said… It was… Why did you do that?” 

Maybe Eliot could just explain how he’d gotten from silence and a hint of abject horror to a declaration of love that wouldn’t be out of place in a Hallmark movie. Hallmark, not Lifetime, because there were no comas and secret children and… Just two people finally seeing each other after years apart, and figuring out new ways to communicate. 

“It was my turn,” Eliot just said, grinning smugly at Quentin. 

“Really?” Quentin was so damn tempted to roll his eyes. 

Because that was too glib, too much like making light of the whole thing. And yeah, he totally understood that this was just something that Eliot did whenever he was scared shitless about how emotionally involved he was, but… It was too soon to joke about it, because it had been a few hours since Quentin had given up on him completely, and the emotional whiplash was still taking a bit of a toll on him. 

“You make me braver,” Eliot repeated the sentiment that had tugged at Quentin’s heart so during his big speech. “Because I’m a coward, Q. You terrify me.” 

His voice shook as he said that, and Quentin watched with wide-eyed as Eliot showed a glimpse of the turmoil of emotions going on underneath that carefully curated mask of the kind of guy Eliot wanted to be. He saw a glimpse of Indiana Eliot for the first time in years, and he remembered how much he’d always appreciated that guy - but only if that guy came in concert with socialite Eliot and debonair Eliot and witty Eliot and smug Eliot and the Eliot that called him Q with that soft look on his face. 

Quentin loved all of these Eliots, and maybe, just maybe, all of these Eliots loved him in return. 

“I’m scared too,” Quentin settled on those words, not wanting to diminish what Eliot was doing here with platitudes. “Because here you are, right in front of me, and… I want this, El. I want this so bad. I want us to get to have this. I think it’s what we both want.” 

If he’d said anything about there being no need to be scared, he would have been calling the both of them liars. Because they did have a lot to be worried about, and there was a lot of pressure on the both of them to get it right this time, to fix what they’d broken. And most of the pressure was on Eliot, Quentin knew as much. Because he’d put it there.

And maybe that wasn’t all that fair of him, but it was the reality of the situation. Quentin’s feelings had never been in doubt here. It wasn’t like Quentin was going to demand that Eliot prove himself - because that speech, that speech - but they’d have to work on fixing the balance somehow. They’d have to work hard. At all of it. And that was terrifying. 

But it was something that they both wanted to do. 

“It is,” Eliot’s voice carried, with its usual dramatic flair. 

“So how can we make sure we get it?” Quentin looked to Eliot. “You’re leaving again. I can write from anywhere, but I… I can’t just give up on everything just because you’re here.” 

Once again, Quentin was taking a flying leap, a leap of faith, and worried that there would be nothing there to break his fall. Because historically, there hadn’t been. Historically, Quentin fell too hard too fast and it scared people. It scared Eliot. Or it had, once. 

Would it do so again now?

“I can postpone,” Eliot made an elegant hand gesture that showed just how simple that would be. “I can do normal for a while. With you. A crappy apartment in Brooklyn, probably. It’s a walk-up, I’m sure. And I’ll have to drag you away from your laptop to make sure that you get some sleep, or food or drink. Maybe I’ll seduce you. I think you’d like that.” 

It echoed an old, ancient conversation in the fresh air, on the grounds of Brakebills. When Quentin had been young and so very scared of failure, and Eliot had attempted to console him with silly stories about seduction and with not so silly tales of the terrible things he’d done in Indiana that had led him to Brakebills Academy. Quentin valued the secrets and kept them close, and had tried not to think too much of the promise of seduction. 

But he’d never forgotten. He’d dreamed of it for years, dreamed of it still. And now, maybe, he’d actually get to have it. Without the expulsion and the memory loss. 

“But what would be the encouragement for me to keep me writing?” Quentin felt lighter. 

“Celebratory blowjobs,” Eliot had an answer right away, because of course he did. “Oh Q, you have no idea about all of the ideas I have for you. For us.” 

His face was probably flushed, he could feel it. He wanted so badly to duck his head and hide behind a curtain of hair so that Eliot wouldn’t see just how much this talk affected him. 

Maybe this was a thing that Eliot should see, though. Maybe it was time to show Eliot just how affected Quentin was by him, by his words and his hands and his body and everything about him. Maybe it was time to be brave again, to take another leap, or a dozen. 

“I’ll tell you later,” Eliot promised. 

“Show me instead,” Quentin teased, a smile making its way onto his face. 

Because Eliot’s response to that was extremely gratifying, a harsh drawn-in breath that was so telling coming from Eliot. Because Eliot was the king of composure, but Quentin could make him lose it with a simple shy suggestion. It was a powerful feeling, a hum deep in his bones, the strumming of a chord that he’d been waiting forever to hear. 

Eliot wanted him. Still. Again. Both of those. Eliot wanted him. 

So why wasn’t he moving?

“That was an open invitation to kiss me,” Quentin admitted. 

And stood there, waiting. Because Eliot was going to have to make the first move here. Until Quentin was one hundred percent sure that he was all in, Eliot was going to have to make all of the moves. And it was probably going to take quite a while until he was sure. 

“Oh really?” Eliot just watched as Quentin stepped closer. 

Okay fine, maybe Eliot didn’t have to make all of the moves. Just the most important ones. Just the one that involved bridging that last bit of distance between the two of them, because Quentin was not as brave as Eliot seemed to think he was. He was still scared that he was dreaming, that Eliot had changed his mind, that this was an opium-fueled hallucination that he was bound to wake up from at some point. 

But maybe, just maybe, this was actually happening. Maybe he was actually sitting down next to Eliot now, and the fireplace was roaring in front of them, and Eliot was looking at him with so much warmth in his eyes and a smile on his ridiculous face. 

“Hey,” Eliot said, and Quentin’s heart pounded in his throat. 

Because that was familiar. It was a memory that wasn’t actually his, only it was, and… That was exactly how his first kiss with Eliot had started, in their other life. 

“Hey,” he answered, giddy grin starting to take over his face. 

It was difficult to school his face, to try and stop himself from smiling. Kissing while smiling was weirdly wonderful, but he wanted a real kiss, one that he didn’t ruin by giggling (but he kind of wanted to giggle at the thrill of it all). He wanted the romance, in front of the roaring fireplace, in a cottage in the middle of a magical land. Quentin wanted the True Love’s Kiss he’d always been too scared to write about in his books. 

(Maybe he would now. Maybe in the next one - if he got that far.)

“Hey Q,” Eliot gently put a hand on his jaw and just leaned in. 

Oh. Yes. Well, that certainly put his false memories to shame, just like that. Because right now there was the slightest scrape of coarse stubble against his sensitive skin, and Eliot’s only slightly calloused hands touching him, and soft lips against his. It was completely overwhelming, and he tried so hard to catalogue everything just in case he didn’t get to have it again. 

“Come on, Q,” Eliot pulled back, briefly. “This is real. I’m doing some of my best work here.” 

And yes, Eliot was really good at this, at pulling in Quentin just close enough that he could reach for him, but not close enough that Quentin could actually get his hands all over Eliot and mess up his somehow still perfectly put-together look. He just wanted to get even closer, he just kept wanting more and more and hoping that he would actually get to have it. But whenever he looked at Eliot, he was reminded that he was certainly not the only one wanting more. 

Because Eliot was leaning in too, his entire body angled towards Quentin, trying to lean in for another kiss. But Quentin was being a little stubborn, trying to tease. 

“Oh really?” Quentin wasn’t actually skeptical, he was just trying to challenge Eliot a little. “This is your best work?” 

Oh, it was on - he could tell just by the look in Eliot’s eyes. His honor had been challenged, and now he had to prove himself. And an Eliot who wanted to prove his sexual prowess was a determined Eliot, a giving Eliot, the kind of Eliot who would absolutely devastate Quentin just to prove that he could put him back together again after. It was ridiculously hot, something Quentin discovered ages ago, during the years that never actually happened. 

But no one had ever said that he wasn’t allowed to use that knowledge to do even better this time around. So he used it. Because he could. Because Eliot remembered too. 

“Peaches and plums,” Eliot had all the evidence he needed. 

Quentin had to kiss him again, his arms wrapping around Eliot without another thought, because he wasn’t going to keep his distance anymore. It was warm in the cottage, and Eliot was with him and they were together finally. Why would he need distance?

“Proof of concept,” Quentin whispered against Eliot’s lips. “Fifty years. Think we can do it again?” 

They were ridiculously lucky - they would get to grow old together twice, when a lot of people didn’t even get to do it once. Once again, Quentin was being given the chance of a lifetime, a chance to live with the love of his life, to know him completely. To watch him grow old and no less beautiful, and to love him with every part of himself. 

Yes, he wanted another fifty years. He’d happily take another hundred. He wanted forever with Eliot, and everything that entailed. 

“We can do better this time,” Eliot vowed. 

“Maybe this place really is magic,” Quentin didn’t really care if it was or not. “The cottage’s magic brought us back together.” 

But antagonizing Eliot was never not going to be fun. He was always going to play the cynic, and Quentin was going to work hard to bring some optimism and idealism back into his life, because he felt like Eliot could use a bit more of that. They all needed a little more hope. 

“I’m pretty sure that Bambi made it all up so we’d fuck,” Eliot disagreed, of course. 

“Give her a little credit,” Quentin already suspected as much from Margo’s earlier comment about the cottage. “She was shooting for a lot more than fucking.” 

Quentin was pretty sure Margo was shooting for something a lot like true love. Sometimes, she could be ridiculously sappy that way - and yes, that would be a direct quote, one from way back when she and Fen first got together. Back then, she tried setting up Quentin with random people too, hoping he’d find the same kind of happiness she had. 

Guess she’d finally succeeded. 

“Guess I’ll have to start reading those books of yours,” Eliot grinned impishly at Quentin. 

“About that,” Quentin was not looking forward to this explanation. “There are some things you might need to know before you…”

Eliot laughed, probably at him. Because it turned out that just because Eliot hadn’t read the actual books, didn’t mean that he didn’t know how to do enough Googling to find a scene by scene summary of the book. He’d recognized the stories immediately, and had recognized himself even sooner than that, probably. That was just how Eliot’s ego worked. 

“That Hale guy,” he teased, gently playing with Quentin’s hair. “That’s a solid character. I feel like he should be in it more, in the second one.”

Of course that was what he had to say about that. Well, it was either that or he’d tease about Jason being quite a cute guy, and Quentin was not sure which was the most embarrassing option of the two. Probably the last one though, so maybe Eliot was holding back here. 

And it’s not like he was wrong about Hale. Because he was incandescent, delightful and mercurial and never, ever dull. And he was so, so important to Jason - as Eliot was to Quentin. 

“He will be,” Quentin told Eliot helplessly. “He’ll be in all of them. In everything I write.”

It earned him more kisses, and as genuine snow started to fall on the only slightly magical cottage, Quentin figured out exactly how book three was going to end. 

With something a lot like this. 


End file.
